


Chicago Teeth

by tiny_trashcan



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Credence Barebone, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Beta Original Percival Graves, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Minor Character Death, Multi, Omega Gellert Grindelwald, Oral Sex, Rimming, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Slow Burn, Werewolves, Wizard Cops, each chapter will have specific warnings, nobody cares about plot in abo fics you say?, slow burn for the gradence which is really the main focus, some people die but none of the violence is within the main pairings, the time period is a hybrid of the 2020s and some 1920s noir mobsters bullshit, this is a really weird AU you guys, too bad I wrote a plot anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_trashcan/pseuds/tiny_trashcan
Summary: Grindelgradence ABO wizard gangsters AU, set in something like modern Chicago with jazz-era flavoring.The one where Grindelwald is a kind of mob boss, Percival is still a wizard cop, and Credence is still an obscurial, but things end up a little differently. I wanted some gangsters, dammit, and an ABO where Grindelwald isn’t an alpha and all the consent is very clear, and in general an ABO without creepy heteronormative gender roles. More gradence than grindelgradence but that’s the end goal so be prepared. More specific warnings given at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the Long Fic I have been working on since, hmm November last year. It’s close to being done so it’s time to start posting chapters, aw yis. Thanks to AN and L for encouraging me, and and also to AN for doing some beta reading and putting up with my flailing all the time. I hope this meets the weirdly specific tastes of a few other people besides me lol.
> 
> General warnings: explicit consensual sex, very minor character deaths, graphic depictions of violence including both magical and nonmagical violence, canon physical and emotional child abuse, don’t worry all the main characters make it ok at the end, mentions of prostitution and probably drugs
> 
> Things I promise are NOT in this fic: there is no abuse or violence of any kind in any romantic pairing, and the sex is all SS&C. Nothing dubious about the consent in this fic.
> 
> Chapter one warnings: graphic depictions of violence (violence occurred before chapter begins, such as descriptions of crime scene photos), verbal threats of violence, references to child abuse

Dull light from the street lamps turns every shadow mercurial. There is no fireplace, but a magician doesn’t need a fireplace. Vivid emerald flames burn smokeless and silent in the center of the high-ceilinged first floor. The fire feeds on no visible fuel and is restrained by no barriers except a pentagram sketched on the bare concrete. This is when the loft’s ground floor looks most like a witch lair in a movie set. The city by night never becomes fully dark, outlining unsettling shapes from the night lights on the window shades. Drinks float to the cluster of magicians as though carried by unseen infernal servants, but this is an auror establishment; the closest things to infernal servants are definitely on the Hallowers’ side. Percival takes a drink of his beer and waves the flames higher to chase the chill out of the cavernous room.

Tina frowns down at the maps spread out on the work table, chewing her lip, likely not aware she’s doing it. Live curse-usage tracking maps ebb and pulse. The more important maps show shapeshifter sightings, werewolf activity, and Hallower associated murders color-coded by degree of certainty. If a body is found killed in the usual style, it’s marked a pale grey. If a link is something more substantial, like the Hallowers’ mark cauterized into the skin over the heart or an announcement from the inside, it gets darker grey or black. Percival watches Tina flick through the ghostly numbers associated with each murder mark. This month, last month, the month before, several hundred in all linked to the Hallowers, a scattered few by the Death Eater Hallowers alone, and a hundred more by the Felices, probable or confirmed. Tina vanishes the reference numbers and accepts a beer from Percival with a sigh.

Scrimgeour and Moody aren’t even bothering to look at the maps at this point. They have fallen instead to arguing. Moody explains once again why there’s no point dragging Grindelwald in for questioning. They have no leads solid enough to make it worth stirring up the piranha tank that is Chicago’s criminal underworld. It’s not even an underworld anymore at this point, not with the bodies of Felices members left strung up by magic alone over major muggle streets. 

There were five of them this time. Assuming the murders were in fact by Hallowers and not imitators, whatever the victims did must have made the Hallower leadership very angry. The murders were unusually gruesome. The men had been stripped naked, their abdomens and genitals flayed, their throats torn open chin to shoulder. Torn and chewed, according to forensics, with unidentified carnivore teeth.

The only Felixer they’ve identified with a record so far was involved in human trafficking. One can say what one likes about the coerciveness of prostitution, but you have to give the Hallowers credit for drawing the line at human smuggling. They don’t simply avoid it, they punish it. No self-respecting auror would ever condone execution without a trial. If he’s honest with himself, though, there’s at least a small part of Percival that feels relieved when the corpse of a serial rapist or child trafficker turns up with the Hallowers’ symbol carved in their lifeless chest. These five bodies don’t have the mark, which could suggest copycat murders rather than true Hallower activity. With shapeshifters committing the crimes and the Hallower network largely unprofiled and at least several hundred strong, narrowing down the suspects has been difficult as always.

Scrimgeour pulls up the crime scene shots, suspending them midair. Moody glowers through the recounting of what they all already know, that these bodies match a certain pattern. They’ve been over this at least three times. Underneath his passionate explanations, Scrimgeour still looks slightly sickened by the photos, trying to not look at them too closely while pointing out details. The worst of violent crime faced by the auror department is done by bizarre curses, the sort of thing that rearranges a victim’s organs or turns their skin inside out. In that sense they’ve seen much worse. At the same time there’s a certain discomforting quality to murders obviously done with little or no magic, with only teeth and knives. 

The injuries are too rough in their thoroughness, too inconsistent to have been done by careless magic. Doing this only with magic would have taken hours. The simplest explanation is often the correct one; these people were murdered by something with both hands and sharp teeth. They’re still waiting on the in-depth report on the bite pattern. Percival would be willing to bet they’ll be from some ridiculous improbable animal, like an extinct species of African hyena. Are hyenas wolves? Percival doesn’t know. Scamander could probably tell him, but it doesn’t really matter. There are no large wild carnivores living in Chicago except for werewolves and shapeshifters. 

No legislator would even consider restarting the werewolf registry unless they have a death wish, career-wise. Anti-werewolf discrimination remains commonplace, but nobody wants to be that blatant. Percival agrees with the arguments against the registry, but can’t help feeling a registry might make his job a little easier.

“If we just did a mass roundup of the shapeshifters in Armour Square,” Scrimgeour is saying. “Somebody will know something. They all know each other, one of them knows who did it.”

“You have no evidence of that,” Moody interjects. “I would love to haul in whatever bastards are responsible, but there’s no point unless we get to the root.” Scrimgeour says, “There’s no way this is anything but a shapeshifter or were.” He indicates the photos with a jerky sweep of his hand.

“Not a raw werewolf,” Moody says impatiently. “This setup was deliberate, and it could have been done by anybody. It doesn’t matter if it looks like a Hallower kill if we have no leads. They haven’t claimed it, the Felixers haven’t claimed it, and we have no witnesses—It doesn’t matter, Rufus!” 

Scrimgeour has always been one for shooting first and asking questions later. Percival wishes his life were that simple. He shifts a paper from the dozens spread out on the work tables, two tables pushed together to accommodate all the files. Multiple layers of possible connections hover in the air above it all, glistening in miniature ley lines. At the epicenter where the lines of evidence always refuse to cross is a stack of photographs. The evidence trails never reach him. Conjecture lines bloom out from him like petals of a flower. He’s the one man they’d love to catch. 

Moody has moved on from his version of reasonable, that is berating Scrimgeour for carelessness, to criticizing the state of new recruits these days. By ‘new recruits’ he means every Chicago junior auror that started in the last ten years. Percival himself just made it out of that category, but if anyone drinks any more tonight he’s likely to be dragged into this rant anyway. He notices Tina looking at him a little forlornly, leaning out of the way of Moody’s emphatic hand gestures. _Can’t you do something about this?_ she seems to be asking. Percival shrugs minutely, because there’s really no point, and waves her over to sit next to him instead. She moves over gratefully and they stare down at the extra layer of files hovering under Percival’s outstretched hand. 

“Greyback case?” Tina mutters, surprised. It’s a dead file, a cold case, but Percival’s added a new clip to it anyway, a newspaper article from three or four years ago from the New York Ghost. ‘The Howls at Night are All Gone,’ announces the title. There’s an illustration of a forest, and wolflike outlines fading in and out of focus. The artist gave them pointy ears and question marks instead of proper faces. “They’re even coming from out of state,” Tina murmurs. Percival rubs a hand over his face and nods. 

The Greyback murder case is from well before Tina and Percival’s time. It was one of the first murders with the profile remarkably similar to the current open case. Tina pages through to the best known photograph, a silhouette of Greyback’s corpse hung midair in front of an abandoned warehouse. The warehouse was a known werewolf gathering place. They’ve seen more and more like this in the past decades, a steadily increasing trickle of deaths where magic was clearly involved, but the death itself was caused by animal bites or tearing claws. Nobody particularly cared to avenge Greyback, a notorious rapist and murderer. For his extensive crimes, Greyback would likely have been executed even under MACUSA’s relatively forgiving current laws. Whoever found him either wanted his pack role, or agreed with MACUSA, or both.

The auror department might in fact have been bribed to keep them from solving the case, but it’s a pretty low priority to revisit, even for Percival, who goes by the books. If there had been any bribery, though, it had not kicked in quickly enough, because this case had been MACUSA’s first hint at the arrival of Grindelwald. It’s widely rumored, in the circles of interest, that Grindelwald himself killed Greyback in a duel that won him pack leadership. A complete nobody up until that point, twentysomething immigrant Gellert Grindelwald had been mentioned during the witness interrogations. MACUSA had brought him in for questioning and been unable to link him to anything. 

Tina pages through the other extra pieces from the Greyback file. There are notes to the effect that word on the street blamed Grindelwald, and a new upstart crime ring had been involved, but nothing in his interview seemed amiss. If not for his later rise to infamy, such notes might have been left completely forgotten to gather dust. The file contains other newspaper clippings from almost thirty years ago, articles discussing the problem of werewolves in a very negative light. There’s a brief about the attacks on the Lupin family from the weeks before Greyback was murdered. 

There’s also a photo of a young Grindelwald. Tina flicks the battered corner of it moodily. The young man in the photograph is not yet dressed like a tycoon, but certainly has the posture of one, smiling innocently up at them like he knows they can’t find anything. Percival knows that expression well. It’s just as charming and irritating on the middle-aged man as it is on the younger photographed version. These days he’s never mentioned directly in connection to any crime. If they want information, they have to go to him, and ask nicely, and hope for the best. 

Grindelwald in the old picture has hair only of gold. Now the man has rings of gold on his fingers, and his hair and suits are accented with white. There’s something in common with his appearance and the shapeshifters in the moment of shifting. You never really see a shapeshifter changing shapes, not like a werewolf or animagus. Instead you only see an afterimage. If you blink at the right moment, you see their faces and bodies as brilliant as liquid gold and silver in the moment of their changing.

The dead men in the latest case have something in common with shapeshifters too, he thinks. Maybe it’s the alcohol and late night blurring his focus, giving his brain false delusions of being poetic. In the photographs, the victims have a waxy pallor but are not yet unrecognizable. In the evening light the photographed people look similar to drowning victims. They’ve had drowning victims in Hallower cases too. Such bodies look hideous and unreal after being left floating in the lake shallows. These dead men look like that. They look like mermaids, dead, half shifted and torn apart.

There are no merpeople in Lake Michigan; Scamander down in the Creatures Division will lecture anyone who says otherwise. There are no merpeople but there are occasionally shapeshifters. They turn the same deathly pale color, cheeks dappled with silver scales, bodies become lithe and snakelike. They flicker away as indistinct as ribbons of silver. There’s no point in catching them because you can’t force a shapeshifter to reveal their identity. They could be suspects in the latest shapeshifter-related crime, or they could be normal people. There is no way to know. In the same way, there is no way to prove whether or not Grindelwald is a shapeshifter unless someone sees him at it, and there’s little chance of that.

The first time Percival had seen the Gellert Grindelwald in person, he’d been wearing an immaculate white suit with a gold tie. He had a tiny derringer pistol with golden grips spread out in pieces on his desk, and he was cleaning it by hand. Grindelwald had been going over every narrow groove of the pistol’s insides with a fresh cotton swab, movements obviously eased by practice. He’d smiled pleasantly at the aurors in his office, and made drinks pour themselves at a flourish from one hand. The entire meeting had been like that, a series of flourishes and formalities, a well choreographed dance. Percival’s boss asked questions. Grindelwald parried or answered. His cooperativeness and hospitality were above reproach. The corners of his eyes crinkled mischievously. Percival would come to know that smile well in the intervening years. 

Grindelwald hadn’t put away the gun during their meeting. He simply waved away his white cleaning gloves and left a protective bubble shimmering over it. Particles of lead dust and cleaner hung caught in the air above the weapon in an ashy halo, keeping them from spreading to be inhaled or collect on the polished desk. Cleaning solvent normally had a strong smell to it. Grindelwald’s office smelled only of him, his leather chairs and expensive bourbon and his omega scent, rich and amused and maple sweet. Percival had been grateful for his even temper, because it was clearly putting even his impeccable superiors on edge. Only Madam Bones had kept up her unreadable cordial mask. 

Grindelwald answered all her questions with minimal smirking and they had gotten up to leave. Percival, younger then and not quite as cautious, hesitated on the way out.

“Why do you clean your gun by hand when you could do it with magic?”

Grindelwald lifted his head to appraise Percival more fully with keen mismatched eyes. He smiled, not an insulting smile, but a secretive smile. He looked like Percival had asked something incredibly clever without knowing it, and was just waiting to reveal the explanation to him. The aurors had it on unprovable good (bad) authority that Grindelwald almost certainly killed a man that very morning with a muggle gun. Was it a compliment or an insult, Percival wondered, to be personally killed by a dark lord, but have him use an ordinary gun rather than his wand?

“What’s your name?”  
“Graves.”  
“Well, Auror Graves, it’s not always about whether one can do a thing by magic. Sometimes it’s simply a question of style.” Grindelwald had quirked his pale eyebrows just slightly, like he was waiting for someone to laugh at a hidden joke. “Good day to you, gentlemen, Madam Bones.”

________________________________________________________________________

Creeds Barebone tries to hold his breath. The alley smells like rotting lettuce and mildew and old books. It’s disgusting, familiar, not a normal alley trash smell. He’s never been able to hold his breath long enough to get through the door, but he always tries anyway. He spreads his hand out palm down on the surface of an unmarked door. As always the metal suddenly turns hot at his touch, almost hot enough to burn. He’s learned not to flinch, to lean into the shock of it, much less painful than other things he’s learned to bear. He wouldn’t be able to pull back from the door anyway, so there’s no sense in trying.

Once the door releases his hand, he traces a symbol where his palm had been. The lines of the symbol burn dull red under his fingertip like the metal is turning molten. Triangle, circle, line, the symbol of the Seekers of the Deathly Hallows. They’re everything he is not, everything that frightens him, purveyors of everything his mother hates: in short, they are almost everything he wishes he could become. First and foremost, however, the Hallowers are magic. The Hallowers’ mark glows ominously for a moment, and starting from the symbol, the door melts into nothingness. Creeds shrugs out of his backpack, scrunching his nose at the alley smell, and slips inside.

The storeroom is unusually busy for this time of day. He has to duck out of the way of three different people with armloads of twisted antlers or levitating crates. He holds his backpack close to his chest, hurrying along the center walkway with his head bowed. His heart pounds, still thrilled and mildly frightened by the magic happening all around him after all this time. Magic! It’s all real magic. Creeds is no genius — his mother has made that clear enough — but even he knows the Tiger’s Chaudron emporium is physically impossible. What should be a small storeroom, based on the outer appearance of the building, is actually two stories and twice as broad as makes sense. That’s not to mention all the bizarre dangerous items being kept inside it.

Creeds looks around for the shopkeeper or one of the stock leaders but all he sees for the moment are busy stockers. The room buzzes with a nervous energy, enough to make his hair stand on end. He backs out of the way of a young woman carrying a crystal jar of bright yellow liquid and gets an elbow in the back from a guy behind him. “Shove off, Mug,” the guy snaps, and Creeds mutters and apology, clutching his backpack high to keep its contents from being jostled. He’s always nervous around these people and their room full of actual black magic, cases full of poisons and skulls that bite and boxes with labels like _**caution - security hex - thieves will have their eyeballs removed**_. There is a jar of unpleasantly pinkish eyeballs right next to those boxes. Creeds looks around for a clear patch of floor and someone drops a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumps and whirls around.

Rabastan Lestrange looks in a towering temper. Creeds realizes with a sinking feeling he’s almost backed right into his boss, who glares up at him with nearly incoherent anger. “Sorry sir,” he says, trying to back away, but is prevented by Mr. Lestrange’s pincer-like grip on his shoulder. “Late again, Creeds,” he snaps, and Creeds holds up the bag defensively. “The Mulcibers were late, all their deliveries were late,” he protests, cringing back when Mr. Lestrange whips out his wand and jabs it threateningly in Creeds’s face. “I ought to glue that lying tongue to the roof of your mouth,” Mr. Lestrange hisses. Creeds shakes his head frantically. 

“This is what I have to work with,” Mr. Lestrange sneers to a pair of men Creeds has never seen before. One of the stock leaders waves frantically at him behind their backs, grimacing and making a lot of confusing emphatic gestures. He accidentally catches the eye of the taller stranger and looks down quickly. 

“Is this necessary, Rabastan?” the taller stranger drawls.  
“I apologize for the interruption,” Mr. Lestrange answers quickly, suddenly sounding nervous. He wheels on Creeds once more. “Why are you standing around in the middle of the floor? Get those things where they belong!” Creeds nods, afraid to speak in case someone decides to punish him.

Mr. Lestrange is the worst part of this job, Creeds thinks, walking away, his heart still in his throat. The scraggly beta has a vicious disposition. Creeds’s mother is more frightening in most ways, but only because he can’t stay out of her way as effectively, and because there are far more people to divide Mr. Lestrange’s rage between. Creeds has seen the man hex people before for particularly egregious offenses or simply because he’s having a bad day. Creeds hurries gratefully around the group of men—wizards—and ducks over to the gesturing stock leader. “Jesus, Creeds, run into the entire mafia, why don’t you,” she mutters, waving him over to one of the work tables with a hovering clipboard. 

“He’s not quite as bad as the entire mafia,” Creeds mutters back halfheartedly, setting down his backpack on a clear patch of table. He unpacks the top layer of junk; an old t-shirt, a battered spiral, a bible, and another t-shirt get dumped on the floor so he can pull out the important stuff, disguised as water bottles wrapped in a sweatshirt. He rolls them out carefully onto the table, pulling his hands away from them quickly. The stock leader taps each one with her wand, revealing their true appearance as clusters of narrow glass vials filled with dull red smoke. 

“Are these all matchsticks?” she asks. He nods and unloads more ‘water bottles.’ She rolls her eyes and scribbles on the clipboard, continuing in an undertone. “ _Gracias a la Flaquita,_ ‘cause we’re, like, fifteen orders behind on these and Lestrange is in the doghouse.” Creeds hums noncommittally and she gestures at him with her pen with one hand and taps the rest of the bottles with her wand in the other. “He’s got to be for the goddamn mafia to be here. Didn’t you know you’re not supposed to make eye contact? He could set you on fire in the blink of an eye.”

“Lestrange is already in the Hallowers. What are you talking about?” Creeds asks in an undertone, shoving clothes and notebook back in his mostly empty bag. “Not Lestrange, stupid, _the mafia,_ ” she whispers back, grinning maniacally. “His boss! That tall one with the eyes, that’s _Gellert Grindelwald._ Don’t look at him!” she adds when Creeds glances back involuntarily. Creeds hunches his shoulders and looks at the floor. The stock leader shoos him out of the way, appalled and delighted. 

She shoves him towards the front where the schedules are kept. Creeds glances furtively over his shoulder at the visitors. He’s never been able to resist making stupid choices that get him in trouble. Gellert Grindelwald is looking right back at him with an unreadable expression. Creeds looks at his feet again, heart jumping into his throat. The one with the eyes, the shop witch said; Grindelwald is middle aged, his blond hair streaked with white, his eyes mismatched and piercing. Creeds hurries to the front of the storeroom and the file wall, his face burning. 

Grindelwald is infamous; he seems to be a kind of villainous Robin Hood for the local magical community. That is, he’s like Robin Hood in the sense that people think he’s a hero while knowing more about the followers than the leader, and in there being relatively more extortion and violence and relatively less actual giving to the poor. Robin Hood didn’t donate tons of money to art museums, Creeds thinks, but maybe that’s part of Grindelwald’s disguise. He doesn’t look like a murderer, but he maybe does look like someone who thinks he could get away with murder. He has, if the stories are true. That might be why Mr. Lestrange looks so scared of him. 

Creeds checks his delivery schedule, rereads it a dozen times until he can repeat it back to himself from memory. It’ll be a busy week. He has the vague sense that his job might be terribly dangerous, but it’s not illegal, really. He’s not a wix, and magical law applies to magicians. He probably doesn’t even register with most of them, just another face on the street. The Hallowers don’t think too highly of nonmagicians, which they call muggles or mugs, but they pay extremely well by the hour. Creeds doesn’t ask too many questions about what he’s transporting, stays out of the way, and in exchange gets a glimpse into the incredible lives of the Chicago wixen. If he gets killed by a sorcerer over smuggled ‘dark’ artifacts, at least it’ll be a danger he chose that kills him rather than one of the dangers he can’t escape.

On the other hand, he’d rather not be killed by his crazy wizard boss. After he’s sure he knows when and where to be for the next week, Creeds decides to get out of there before anything else happens. Normally he’d cram himself in a corner out of the way and watch the stockers do their work, but it’s not worth the risk with Mr. Lestrange prowling around in such a mood. 

He dodges around more people in the walkway and has almost made it to the alley door when somebody catches his elbow. He turns to look and nearly jumps out of his skin. Gellert Grindelwald gives Creeds a pleasant smile. “Excuse me,” he says, “are you in the middle of a delivery run?” Creeds’s mouth goes dry. “No sir, I’ve just finished,” he says in a small voice. What did he ever do to deserve this? “In that case,” says Grindelwald, “I would like to speak with you for a moment.”

Oh god, Creeds thinks. Is this about running into Mr. Lestrange? Is there something damning about making eye contact more than once with a powerful wizard? He didn’t do anything on purpose and doesn’t think he said anything disrespectful, but that doesn’t usually matter. Mugs and carriers are the bottom of the food chain. He’s like one of the tiny fish on the aquarium posters, and Grindelwald is the shark. Creeds thinks he does not want to be alone with the sort of man who frightens Mr. Lestrange, but he’s almost certain he can’t refuse. Grindelwald walks to the front of the stock room and Creeds trails miserably behind him, hoping he’s not about to be turned into potion ingredients.

Grindelwald gestures him through a doorway toward the front of the store. Creeds has never been in this part of Tiger’s Chaudron before; it’s a long narrow space lined with tiny bottles, lit with dusty golden light from the impossibly high ceiling overhead. He gets a glimpse of what might be the back of a shop counter at the other end through a glass door. Grindelwald shuts the storeroom door behind them. The voices and bustling fade into the background immediately. Creeds clenches his fists nervously. Grindelwald gives him a curious once-over before he speaks. 

“What’s your name?”  
“Credence Barebone, s-sir.” Creeds hesitates over the last word and winces internally. He’s heard Mr. Lestrange berating people before for referring to Grindelwald as mister. He’s not sure the reason for Lestrange’s insistence, but he’s heard rumors, or rumors of rumors. Is the wizard before him a man or something else entirely, something with name but without gender? Sir may not be appropriate for a person who isn’t human, but what else are you supposed to call someone to show respect?

“Credence,” Grindelwald repeats. He doesn’t look offended, at least. “Rabastan called you something else, didn’t he?”  
“Creeds. It’s a nickname.”  
“Do you prefer the shortened version, or was that nickname a Rabastan original?”  
“I like Creeds better, sir.” Grindelwald still doesn’t react to the honorific and Creeds figures adding one is safer than otherwise. 

“Creeds, then. I’m one of Rabastan’s superiors, as you might have noticed.” Creeds nods, staring at the floor. Grindelwald continues. “The way Rabastan spoke to you just now was entirely unnecessary and I apologize for his behavior. I will speak to him about it.”

Creeds blinks and stares at him. “I don’t want any trouble, sir,” he says quickly. Grindelwald’s expression is still unreadable. “I’m sure you don’t, which would be why he’s gotten away with bullying you so long. He’s often like that, is he not?” Creeds doesn’t know where to look. Mr. Lestrange is always unpleasant, but he’s like that to everyone, and Creeds would rather not be out of a job for complaining. Getting Mr. Lestrange in trouble seems like a great way to get himself fired or turned into a cockroach or both. Grindelwald seems to take his silence for an answer, however, and changes the subject.

“How long have you worked for us, Creeds?”  
“Four years, sir.”  
“And how did you end up working for us?”  
“I needed a job, sir.  
“But that’s not all, is it? What were you looking for?”  
Creeds looks at him uncertainly. Can wizards read minds? Is this some kind of test? Grindelwald smiles kindly. It looks like a real smile, which is rather disconcerting, as people don’t approve of him very often.

“It’s not just anyone that will stay in a job like this for long,” Grindelwald says. “You know what we are by now, don’t you?” Creeds doesn’t, entirely, but he nods. He knows enough to be wary, even if he knew nothing about Grindelwald’s frightening reputation. He can tell Grindelwald is something different, maybe different from any wix Creeds has ever seen. Even the air around Grindelwald feels different. The agitated mood in the storeroom wasn’t just an impression. Standing this close to Grindelwald, Creeds can feel something like static electricity emanating from the wizard. Magic, he thinks, nervous exhilaration zinging down his spine.

“What do you want to do with your life?” Grindelwald asks.  
“I don’t know. Sir.”  
“What if you could do anything? What do you dream?”

Creeds frowns, still uncertain. “We’re too poor to have dreams, sir,” he says. Grindelwald looks interested. “Surely not. When we have almost nothing, I find that’s when some people see themselves most clearly.” 

Creeds chews his lip. He’s never heard an adult speak like this. It reminds him in a bizarre way of his sister Modesty, who hopes defiantly for all sorts of impossible things. He must stay silent longer than he realizes, because Grindelwald takes a half step back. “I’m apologize, I’ve made you uncomfortable.”  
“No, I mean, it’s alright,” Creeds says, startled. He is a bit uncomfortable but he’s curious, and flattered by the attention in spite of himself. He’s also keenly aware of that half step back. He can’t think of the last time someone tried to respect his space. He’s learned that the tiniest gestures people make in situations that don’t matter can tell you a lot about how they will act in situations that do matter.

“You know, we take care of people who help us.”  
“Take care of?” Creeds repeats.  
“Protect them. Help their families. Make sure they get what they need. Would you like that, Creeds?” 

Creeds has to look away. He would like a magician to help his sisters, to solve all of his problems quite literally with magic. Impossible. He shivers at the sudden ferocity of his emotions, his hunger to be safe and free. He wants to break something or cry. 

“I’m just a carrier. I’m not, I can’t -”  
“Not what?”  
“Not a magician,” Creeds whispers, staring at the floor.  
“Aren’t you?

Grindelwald’s fingers touch Creeds’s chin. Creeds jolts as though stung and looks up at Grindelwald’s face. He has to look up to meet Grindelwald’s eyes. Even if he were standing up straight, Grindelwald would still be taller. With a second slower wave of surprise, he registers that the man’s expression is still kind. Creeds doesn’t know what to think. He was expecting to be criticized when Grindelwald brought him back here, not asked about his life and his family. He wasn’t prepared for this.

“It takes all sorts to keep the world running.”  
“What?” Creeds is having trouble keeping track of the conversation. Grindelwald has his face very close to Creeds’s and appears to be inspecting Creeds’s expression for something. “May I see your hands, please?” he says suddenly.

Creeds’s immediate first thought is to refuse. Aside from it being a peculiar question, his palms are ugly, the skin uneven and scarred. His mother’s go-to punishment has always been hitting him with a belt until his hands are swollen or bleeding. Even now, his left hand is tender and bruised from a punishment the previous week. He doesn’t even remember what the punishment was for. Something in Grindelwald’s expression makes Creeds feel sure the man can read his mind, and some of what he sees, he doesn’t like. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “May I see?”

This is undoubtedly the strangest conversation Creeds has ever had. He’s felt off balance since Mr. Lestrange threatened him and now he doesn’t know what to think of this man, this creature. Grindelwald is supposed to be a very dangerous wizard criminal and has so far done nothing but ask Creeds odd questions. Grindelwald holds out his hand expectantly. Creeds doesn’t really want to go along with this, but he does. 

Grindelwald turns Creeds’s hands over in his own and lingers on Creeds’s vividly bruised left palm. “This wasn’t Rabastan,” he says grimly. Creeds shakes his head. Grindelwald looks at him, and Creeds expects him to ask who, what, why, some other strange and personal thing. Instead he holds Creeds’s left hand very gently by the wrist. He places the thumb of his other hand over Creeds’s pulse, feather light, and strokes his thumb down, over Creeds’s palm, over the dark purple bruise. The static feeling from the air coalesces and shoots down Creeds’s fingertips. He sucks in a breath between his teeth. Grindelwald lifts his thumb away. The bruise is gone. Creeds curls his fingers. The pain is gone too. Grindelwald drops his hands away. 

“Thank you,” Creeds says in a hushed voice, turning his hand over in wonder. His fingertips are still buzzing. “It was very nice to meet you, Creeds,” Grindelwald says quietly. When Creeds looks up, the narrow room is empty. Grindelwald has vanished without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Gracias a la Flaquita” = “Thanks to the Skinny Lady.” This is a reference to Santa Muerte, a figure from Mexican lore associated with death and protection from death, incorporated into Catholic-style saint iconography and regional religious practices.  
> Tiger’s Chaudron = tiger’s entrails, a reference to the witches’ lines in Macbeth.
> 
> I've never posted anything long before so I would appreciate any and all feedback! I have never lived in Chicago so please feel free to correct me if I say smth that doesn’t make geographic sense. I can’t decide if I like referring to Credence as Creeds, because that’s how he thinks of himself, or if it would be better to only use the nickname in dialogue. What do you guys think?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out longer than I expected so I cut it in half, which means the next update will be a lot sooner than this one. Enjoy some mobsters being sketchy, and also meet the other Barebone siblings! Writing Modesty is fun.
> 
> Chapter two warnings: references to child abuse and homophobia, verbal threats of violence.

________________________________________________________________________

Creeds slips back out to the main storeroom and flees quickly on the off chance that Mr. Lestrange will find something else to pick on him about. He doesn’t really want to go home either though and finds himself walking the long way, past every huge piece of graffiti art he knows. In one of those half-safe neighborhoods—the kind that isn’t so bad as long as you keep away after dark—with one of his favorite ever pieces of art. It’s a wolf, larger than life, transfixed by a javelin, posed as though it’s dancing. he lingers there, staring at the wolf’s gaping jaws, rubbing a thumb over the place on his hand where the bruise had been.

Creeds gazes inattentively at the extravagantly angular words painted on the alley walls as he passes. He keeps alert for anyone following him home, as always, but finds himself preoccupied with rehashing his meeting Gellert Grindelwald. He keeps thinking about the undertone of Grindelwald’s scent: omega, wintry, and something sweet and rich Creeds has never smelled before. He never would have expected someone with such a fearsome reputation to be an omega. Maybe that’s not fair. Mod is a girl, after all, and a kid, and she’s doing her best to be fearsome. Besides, Grindelwald is a wizard. Maybe the rules are different for wizard omegas.

He doesn’t want to go home yet, so he gets off the L a few stops early and goes to look at one of his other favorite pieces of street art. This one must have been made by magicians, because most people don’t seem able to see it. At first glance, it doesn’t look like anything, just the outer wall of a warehouse painted solid black. Its colors are invisible from most angles, like the colors of oil in a puddle of water. Creeds lingers on the corner across from the mural. He turns his head and looks out of the corner of his eye until he sees them: glimmering fractals of teeth and eyes. They shine copper green, cobalt blue, rust, and neon purple. It’s the kind or purple from colored lights you can’t focus on properly even if you’re looking right at them.

While he’s in the area, Creeds tells himself he might as well go see if Remus is working. He intended to do that all along, in the back of his mind, though he pretends it’s idle curiosity. in truth, he’s starving for more human contact, any friendlier person and safer place than the apartment to which he eventually must return. It’s not all that late but already the shadows pool in the alleyways between high apartment buildings. A gust of wind kicks up and goes right through his sweatshirt, an ominous reminder that it is early winter, no matter this week’s unseasonable warmth. 

On Creeds’s way to the studio, he sees an auror—a member of the wizard police. This auror is an alpha witch, compact of body and alert of expression. She has almost military-short hair and a pretty face, a gun at her hip and a wand out of sight but doubtless within easy reach. She has a Chicago cop uniform, but Creeds knows instantly she’s a witch. Even if he couldn’t recognize the faintly magical bite to her lemony alpha scent, he’s always been able to see things most others can’t. She has a charm on the back of her jacket, a spidery double image, with the word POLICE superimposed on top of the word AUROR. He can see the magical government’s symbol stitched into the original garments. POLICE is merely for show.

The auror intends to be entirely invisible, he thinks, based on how she’s standing. People stand differently when they think they’re invisible. She still looks ready for anything. He pretends he can’t see her, carefully not looking at her. Invisible people; that’s another one on the list of things a mug Creeds isn’t supposed to be able to see. He imagines the auror’s eyes follow him, though he can’t be sure. Don’t look at invisible people. If you make eye contact, there’s no way to pretend you didn’t see them. Creeds crosses on the other side of the street until he’s out of sight. He hikes up the neck of his button-down against the cutting breeze, and tries to keep the sleeves of his sweatshirt hanging down over his chilled fingers.

He slips through more alleys, feeling jumpier in the gathering darkness. His destination is a wide alley lined with pairs of garage doors and unmarked back entrances. One has the garage door half raised, its regular door propped open by a cinderblock. The opening radiates heat and orange light. Creeds slips inside, careful not to touch anything on the crowded metal shelves. He can hear the furnaces breathing before he turns the corner. Most of the concrete-walled studio is occupied by huge furnaces and heat boxes that resemble sideways industrial freezers. Intake fans rattle gently overhead as always. They’ve turned on the extra miner’s lights already, wrapped tightly by their cords around the rafters. The wiring on those lights doesn’t work, Remus has told Creeds. They’re plugged in for appearances, but they run on pure magic. 

Creeds is relieved to see Remus among the big guys at work before the furnaces. Remus is working on a huge piece, something that currently resembles a deep red bubble on the end of a metal pole. He slides the pole into one of the furnaces, whose mouth glows orangey white, too bright to look at. He sees Creeds when he turns around with the pole, the bubble of molten glass now brighter red. He grins and calls out a greeting. Creeds pulls up a stool from one of the work benches, not too close, and shucks off his backpack and sweatshirt. Remus rolls the pole on a track, leaning over to blow through the end so the bubble of glass expands just slightly. He swings it down off the track and back over to one of the furnaces.

“How are you doing, Creeds?” Remus says cheerfully, raising his voice over the low roar of the furnaces. Creeds shrugs. Remus says, “Can’t talk too much just now, hope you don’t mind. You have long?” Creeds shrugs again and offers Remus a small smile. “Not very long,” he says, too quietly, his voice catching. “Say again?” Remus asks loudly, turning the pole and glass in the furnace. Creeds tries again. “Not very long,” he says, louder than a conversation volume but still almost too quiet. “I just wanted to watch.” _If that’s alright,_ he thinks, and Remus smiles and nods like he hears the thought. 

Remus Lupin is a tall, mousy-haired guy in his thirties, with dramatic claw mark scars across his face and a penchant for wearing rock band t-shirts with the sleeves torn off. He has more scars on his arms, and constellations tattooed up the back of his neck and down to his elbows. He’s the only werewolf Creeds personally knows, and a shapeshifter on top of that. He has the werewolf eyes, too, which most people on the street don’t seem to notice, but have always been obvious to Creeds. Remus looks intimidating until you spend more than two minutes talking to him, at which point you’ll realize he’s about as scary as a nerdy middle school English teacher.

In fact, Remus is one of the nicest people Creeds has ever met, and he doesn’t mind at all when Creeds asks him stupid questions about the magical world. He doesn’t mind Creeds sitting there for hours, just watching him work in the studio. Creeds wishes he had hours to wait today, even though he’ll soon start to sweat in the heat from the furnaces. He watches Remus work the molten glass and asks, “What color will that be when it’s done?” 

“Black with some gold in it,” Remus explains. “This is all we’ve been making all month. Big commission for some jazz club downtown.” “One of ours?” Creeds asks. Remus swings the pole like a pendulum, glass end pointed down. The luminous glass bubble stretches and expands. He swings it back up again and returns it to the furnace for more heating. 

“The Hallowers you mean? I think so,” Remus says. “Grindelwald is a big patron of the arts, you know. Has a lot of big-bucks art friends. This studio would never have got off the ground without people like him.” Creeds absorbs this information, adds it in to the patchwork of things he’s heard about Grindelwald. He trusts what Remus says more than most of what he hears. 

Creeds almost gets home too late. When he slips guiltily through the door, he’s lucky for once and Mary Lou still isn’t home. Except for one light in the kitchen, the apartment is dark. Chastity is there waiting for him, and she’s practically vibrating with stress. There are spots of color on her pale cheeks. Her anxiety smells nastily sweet, faint but distinct. “Where have you been?” she hisses desperately, brandishing her lunch bag at him. “Sorry,” he whispers, fumbling out of his backpack. “You know I can’t leave her home alone,” she rants in an undertone. “You know we’ll both be in trouble if I have to wait for you, Credence!” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he apologizes again. She ought to be running out the door, but still Chastity stays, hovers on the verge of saying something. Her shoulders collapse downward and she exhales in a rush. “Modesty got in a fight at school today,” she whispers. 

Creeds feels like her words are teeth. They dig into his throat and pull. “Is she okay? Did they hurt her?” He can’t see any light on under the girls’ door down the hall. Chastity shakes her head despairingly. “She’s fine,” Chastity says, “but she’s got a teacher’s note.” Relief vies with a new kind of fear inside Creeds. “Does it have to be signed?” he asks, and Chastity nods, helplessness and anger warring on her face. 

“I don’t know why she’s like this,” Chastity bursts out, still in a whisper. “She won’t tell me anything about what happened or why she did it. She never tells me anything. She says they started it, but that’s always what she says. I don’t know what we’re going to do with her, and if mom finds out—“ 

“Hey,” Creeds says. He touches her shoulder hesitantly. She sighs sharply, folds her arms tight and snaps her mouth shut. She tucks her chin down to look at the floor and hunches her shoulders, curving in on herself. She looks exhausted already, as though she’s just gotten off a ten hour shift rather than being about to leave for one. He settles his hand a little more firmly on her shoulder and she does not shrug him off. “Hey,” he says again.

“I have to go to work,” Chastity says. “Will you talk to her?”  
“I can’t make her do anything,” Creeds warns. Chastity sighs heavily and starts towards the door. His hand slips off her shoulder and he lets it fall to his side. “Just try, okay? She won’t even explain herself to me.” Creeds agrees to try, though he doesn’t have a whole lot of hope. Modesty rarely talks back to their mother, thank Christ, but she gets into trouble with almost everyone her age to make up for it.

He knocks on the girls’ door before he opens it. Modesty is supposed to be in bed, but as he expected, she’s sitting on the floor under a makeshift blanket fort, reading a school library book with a flickery keychain flashlight. The light is so faint it doesn’t show when the door is shut, as she well knows. She twists around to look at him, folding her arms on the edge of the mattress, hooded by the blanket. She doesn’t bother to turn off the flashlight. He checks his pants for dust and glass shop soot before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“You’re late,” she says, resting her chin on her folded arms.  
“You’re not in bed,” he replies. “How was school?”

“Fine. There was chocolate pudding at lunch, the good kind, and I got two ‘cause Raleigh didn’t want hers.” Creeds nods and waits. She ducks out of sight and shuffles her forbidden book somewhere in her school bag. He’s still waiting when she crawls up on the bed, dragging the blanket with her. He raises his eyebrows. She sighs dramatically and squirms under the covers. “Chastity told you, didn’t she?”

“You’ve got to stop getting in fights, Mod,” Creeds says softly. Modesty flops over on her stomach with a huff. “Kaiden started it! He said my shirt was ugly,” she begins. “And I hate that shirt! But he was being mean and he was telling lies about Chelsea and about you, so I got mad and I hit him.”

Chelsea is one of Modesty’s friends, a boy with a truly unfortunate name even in this day and age, and the most visibly gay nine year old Creeds has ever encountered. Modesty has wisely never mentioned him in their mother’s presence. One only has to take a look at Creeds’s scarred hands to know their mother’s opinion on the slightest possibility of homosexuality. Creeds suppresses another sigh. “What did Kaiden say this time?”

“It was awful and I’m not going to repeat it,” she says primly. She sounds exactly like Chastity for about half a second. “Was it about gay omegas?” he asks. “Kaiden is stupid and it’s not his business whether anyone is gay or an omega,” Modesty growls, which might sound intimidating once she’s older, “and it doesn’t matter anyway! He doesn’t know anything and how dare he say nasty stuff about gay omegas, like he knows something, which he doesn’t. And you’re not an omega anyway, like he knows anything about you. He’s so dumb and it’s legal and everything, and, rrrrgh!” 

Modesty buries her face in her pillow and snarls, or makes what will be a snarl in five or six years. “Don’t let mom hear you talk about any of that,” Creeds reminds her. He appreciates his little sister’s righteous anger. When Mary Lou’s not there to look at him, when he’s alone and safe, Creeds can even feel some of that same anger for himself. But in this apartment, their mother’s presence weighs down on him, stifling any sparks of rebellion even though she’s gone for now. Anger is not safe. Defiance is not safe. He loves Modety’s ferocity more dearly than he loves any chance for his own freedom. Unfortunately, with that comes the stupid bravery to say things he knows better than to say.

“Mom’s dumb,” Modesty mutters into her pillow, as a case in point. “Don’t say that,” Creeds scolds gently, smoothing her hair out of her face. She wiggles and shrugs her blankets farther up over her shoulders, poking his knee with her elbow. He unfolds one wrinkled corner to cover her better. “Creeds, did you ever want to run away?” she asks.

“We have nowhere else to go and no money,” he says automatically.  
“But did you ever want to?”  
“It’s time to go to bed.”

He’s blatantly avoiding her question, and she knows it. She scrunches up her nose at him. He lets his hand rest on her shoulder for a moment longer, and reluctantly stands up. “Did you hide the teacher’s note?” he asks as he prepares to shut the door. “Chastity has it,” Modesty answers. Of course she does. Creeds can only hope she’ll choose to lie, sign it with their mother’s name and tuck it in Modesty’s backpack somewhere Mary Lou won’t likely see. 

Creeds says, “Please don’t get in any more fights tomorrow, no matter what Kaiden does.” Modesty doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have a lot of hope she’ll obey him, but it’s worth a try. “Goodnight, Mod,” he says. 

“I love you, Creeds,” she whispers right before he shuts the door. “I love you too,” he says.

________________________________________________________________________

Percival turns his back to the winter wind, tightens his fingers around his fourth cup of coffee, and allows himself a brief fantasy of charming every single honking, screeching mug vehicle to be totally silent. He ought to take in his jacket and have warming charms professionally stitched into the sleeves. Until a few days ago they’d been having an unusually mild November, and winter has reestablished itself with a vengeance just in time for an early morning smuggling bust. One of the aurors waves for him and he reigns his attention back to the controlled chaos at hand.

Within obnoxiously orange barricades, the aurors have ripped up half a city street, exposing the sewer below, as well as a decidedly un-sewer-like cavity they are currently emptying of crates. Magical barricades glimmer almost imperceptibly around them, and several aurors stand guard at the corners, in case the Felixers decide to try taking back their goods. 

“What have you got for me, Lopez?” Percival asks an auror who is notating the contents of the crates that have already been removed from the Felixer hideout. “We’re doing the Hallowers’ dirty work, sir,” the auror, Lopez, replies dryly. “Facts only in the public space, please,” Percival says sternly, and Lopez shrugs. The Felices, or Felixers, are smugglers of Felix Felicis and other controlled and banned substances, and they serve as the Hallowers’ top financial competition. They’ve got nothing on the Hallowers’ racketeering, most likely, but the bust may well keep them out of the Hallowers’ way for a little while.

“Let’s try that again, without the commentary,” Percival says, taking another sip of his coffee. “What have you got for me, Lopez?” Lopez makes a mark on her clipboard and reseals one of the crates with a flick of her wand. “Jackpot on this one. Class A forbidden substances, manticore venom, some poison tincture bases, belladonna without a permit. We got something for Creatures Division too, looks like maybe salamander eggs, also without a permit.”

“Don’t those need to be kept in stasis?” Percival asks, looking over the list. “Already done,” Lopez says. “Don’t let Scamander see the Class As though, he’ll go into fits.” Percival glances farther down the list. “Snidget? Not alive?” 

Lopez shakes her head no. “Definitely not alive. They’ve been turned into potions parts. That’s an ICW violation.” The pair exchanges a grimace. Any investigation of interest to the International Confederation of Wixen is likely to become an even bigger mess than it already is. “Get copies of that inventory sent to my desk and the federal liason,” Percival says, and switches topics. “So, have we been given a official contact with the Canal Street Bone-Chewer?”

“I cannot believe we are formally recognizing anything called a bone chewer,” Lopez mutters, writing a tally on the list while two more aurors carefully finish removing sealing hexes from the next crate. “Lopez,” Percival warns. “Sorry sir,” says Lopez, raising her eyebrows and pointedly not looking at the goblins. “Guy in back over there says he’s a rep. Or she. No idea, frankly, sir. Good luck.” Percival chooses to ignore most of this statement and turns towards the goblins.

It’s seven in the morning, and two obliviation and redirection teams have been working for hours to convince the majority of early morning Chicago traffic that this street is under construction for some perfectly normal reason. The muggle-repelling charms are so powerfully disorienting they’ve nearly caused two traffic accidents. The goblins standing around aren’t making things much easier for the obliviators or anyone else. However, Percival learned very quickly that when goblins decide to cooperate with Magical Law Enforcement, it’s best not to argue with where they feel like standing.

Like most of the goblins in Chicago, these are part of what’s essentially one of several mafia families. They have diplomatic immunity for not being wixen or citizens of MACUSA, and you can’t call them mafia families, but that’s exactly what they are. Instead of being difficult to pin down because of their careful organization, like the Hallowers, they’re difficult because they are in fact at least a dozen unrelated groups, all behaving as if they are the only ones that exist.

Percival keeps his emotions perfectly balanced, his scent its usual even beta spiciness. That’s more than can be said for the majority of the aurors on scene. They are doing excellent efficient work, but the majority are alphas, and always have a harder time keeping excitement out of their scents. He drinks the last of his coffee and vanishes the cup. The goblins watch him approach He assumes they’re watching based on the way their heads turn rather than their eyes, which are solid black.

“Chicago Magical Law Enforcement extends our gratitude to the Bone Chewer of Canal Street. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us,” Percival says, directing his comments at the goblin standing farthest in the back, certainly the representative. That particular individual looks approximately like a bald sewer rat in a black dragonskin tuxedo, with a guard or escort of similarly bizarre beings dressed in everything from sweatshirts to some kind of spiky rainbow punk outfit. 

The representative goblin peers up at him and offers a fish-toothed smile. “Your gratitude is accepted and the Bone Chewer returns your greeting, Percival Graves,” the representative says in a surprisingly deep voice. “The Bone Chewer has delivered the dishonorable Felices into your hands, and hopes you will return this gesture of goodwill,” the representative continues. ‘Felices,’ the name of the smuggling group they’re busting, comes out of the goblin’s speech sounding like it was put through a disposall. 

“Any gestures in return must be given by Chicago MACUSA, not the aurors,” Percival says as politely as possible, and as he expected, the representative’s eyes narrow. “We request a translator,” the representative says smoothly. Percival assures them that a translator is on his way. 

Percival doubts anyone able to carry the conversation in English up to this point truly needs a translator. He also knows for a fact that goblins never do anything for humans out of the goodness of their hearts, and are probably using the aurors to do some obscure kind of dirty work. They barely ever agree to talk properly to any aurors, so it’s a damn good thing they’ve asked for Scamander from Creatures.

Newt Scamander is the scrappiest, most enthusiastic, most frequently dirt-covered omega Percival has ever met. Newt stands six foot seven inches and is composed chiefly of freckles, elbows, and enthusiasm. He has a tendency to say socially inadvisable things in front of large groups of people, but his heart is in the right place. He can’t really speak Gobbledegook, he always says: “Just enough to be polite and get by, you know, and it’s Frankish Hobadeg actually, ‘Gobbldegook’ isn’t a language at all, that would be like calling the English language ‘European,’ which—“ 

All that is to say that Newt may not have official capacity as a liason to the goblin mafias, but he’s perfect as a casual intermediary with their shifty, toothy cronies. Percival gladly leaves Newt to discuss the usual terms of MACUSA’s gratitude with the goblins and is promptly set upon with questions by his own subordinates. While in the middle of doing three other things at once, Percival briefly overhears Newt complimenting one of the goblins on his—their?—glowing navy dreadlocks. In English. Percival sighs internally.

Percival prefers wix gangs over the goblin mafias any day. At least the Hallowers only have two factions, and it doesn’t take too much energy to figure out the existence of the one, the Hallowers proper, and the other, the Death Eater Hallowers. Both operate with remarkable coordination and consistency, as far as the aurors can tell. At least if MACUSA were ever to get negotiations with those majority human groups, they could expect an organized leadership front. The goblins are complete wild cards by comparison.

Another one of his aurors appears at Percival’s elbow. She says, “Mr. Graves, I’m getting more about the arson reported early this morning, and they don’t think it actually was an arson.” Of course not, because trouble always strikes in threes. Percival asks, “Then why’d they report it like one?” The auror glances back at the report on her phone. “There are burn marks, but forensics says it looks like a small magical explosion.” Percival’s interest sharpens at that. He says, “What’s the burn type?”

“Unknown, sir.”  
“Unknown? And no claims yet?”  
“No group has claimed responsibility. Bode’s said he wants a dark arts specialist to look at it.”

Percival would very much like to look at the “arson” himself. The Hallowers set fire to inconvenient buildings all the time in highly improbable ways, to the point that most of the Chicago mug fire departments have been Confounded far more often than is generally advisable. They’ve had some odd cases in the last month, odder than usual, and he’s concerned that they may have some new and different case to consider. “Have Prince take a look at it,” he suggests, regretting the need to delegate but knowing he’s needed elsewhere.

“Eileen is off today,” the auror says. Percival says, “Call her anyway and see if she can come in. I’ll owe her a favor. I want a comparison of this and all the other unknown-source burning cases from this month written up and on my desk by tomorrow morning. We don’t have time for this.”  
“Yes sir,” the auror quips, and weaves back around her colleagues toward the barrier. 

Scamander is still talking to the goblin representative, and he’ll probably need Percival’s input again before long. Between this and the latest sewer dragon incident, Percival knows he’ll likely spend all day assigning people to clean up the street repairs and related traffic rerouting. He’d like to spend more time worrying about the mystery explosion, but hasn’t got the time to blink, so it’ll have to wait.

Even a small bust like this takes a long time to clean up, even when everything has gone as smoothly as this. Percival allows himself a moment to appreciate that he can now steer the Chicago aurors through this kind of controlled chaos. They weren’t always this efficient, and it’s a new balancing act every day, but they’re doing good work, and days like this make it worth the effort. Scamander waves for Percival’s attention. Percival clears his head, silently wraps a fresh heating charm around himself like a cloak, and gets back to work.

________________________________________________________________________

Dripping water echoes in empty silence. The light is weak, dull and colorless. Three dark-clad figures push and drag a woman down an abandoned subway tunnel.

They pass through an invisible barrier. As though a black velvet curtain has been withdrawn, the tunnel now blazes with light. Silhouetted before the lights sit several more people, waiting. The figures continue to drag the woman to the brightest circle of floor. One of them shoves her to her knees. The other two step into the shadows. They are no longer human figures: they have become panthers, with no twisting of limbs or visible stage in-between human and feline. 

In the circle of light, the final dark-clad figure steps back, draws his wand, and points it at the floor. Near blinding patterns flare in a pentagram around the kneeling woman. The pentagram hems her in. She shudders, chest heaving with sobs, but not a sound escapes her. Magic keeps her utterly silent. The man announces her name. One of the silhouettes inclines its head.

The silhouette considers her for a moment and pulls a wand from his coat. He releases the spells on the woman, spells that had blinded her sight, stopped her ears, stilled her tongue. The newly audible sounds of her crying echo against the concrete. She won't be able to see the faces of any of the silhouetted people against the bright lights. The man in the center of the silhouetted group watches the woman weeping. Minutes stretch out with only her ragged breathing to break the silence.

Finally, the man speaks. “Do you know why you are here?”  
“Grindelwald,” she gasps. “We paid our share! We paid everything, I swear!” 

“You are lying,” he interrupts. “We have all your records. We know exactly how much you sold for us, and how much you sold on the side without paying back our share.” The woman takes a great shuddering breath, rocking back and forth on her knees. “We paid,” she wails, "It's not true, please."

“Did you think you were special?” Grindelwald asks pleasantly. "Did you think that your usefulness in the past would shield you from the consequences of your disloyalty?” She gasps as though his words had been a curse, a physical blow. Her crying echoes down the cavernous tunnel. He doesn't enjoy terrorizing people, exactly, but he does take a certain vindictive pleasure in watching traitors grovel. Defiance would be more interesting. On the other hand, defiant distributors are terrible for business.

"Please," she chokes, "I'm sorry! Please don’t hurt my Anna, she didn't know anything, it was all me. Please, I’ll do anything!” She can’t see it, but Grindelwald curls his lip. “I don’t want your wife, or your daughter. I hate to waste magical blood.” She flings herself forward and tries to bow to the floor. The pentagram fizzes and burns her hands, forcing her back. “Oh, thank you, thank you—“

“I think you misunderstand me. There are better ways to make use of traitors. You're in the specialty ingredients trade. Tell me, how much do you think we could get for the life blood of a witch, unwillingly taken? How many dragots per ounce?” 

The apothecary owner wails. Her voice echoes in the empty tunnel. The wixen shapeshifted into panthers glare at her with milky yellow eyes.

Grindelwald gives her three days to get the money together. If she does, he’ll make sure her business never sells anything illegal ever again, but she and her family can otherwise go free. If she pays and stays out of the underground business, the Hallowers will leave her and her family alone. Sellers know the conditions when they sign up. Stay loyal, and the Hallowers keep you safe. The Felices kill their disloyal, but Grindelwald prefers something he considers far worse. 

If she doesn’t come up with the money, he’ll ruin them. Not only will the supply of most profitable goods dry up, everyone will be instructed not to buy from her. The legitimate half of the apothecary business will be ruined, by planted evidence of some kind, money laundering or a half truth about the smuggling. He’ll make sure she never works again. She and her family will be impoverished, forced to move out of the city at best before their luck runs out. If she tries to retaliate and tell the aurors the truth, then he just might have one of them killed. Maybe the herbalist herself, maybe one of her family. Who knows? 

Grindelwald stands, turns his back on the sobbing woman, and walks away from the merciless pool of light. His steps reverberate faintly off the concrete walls. Ten minutes later, the apothecary shop owner is released onto an unfamiliar street. “Three days,” one of the kidnappers growls quietly in her ear. They vanish into the shadows, leaving her alone. In the subway tunnel far below, all appears exactly as it was before. Darkness reigns one again. Water drips into a pool on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me about this fic or this fandom in general on tumblr @tiny-trashcan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three warnings: physical and verbal abuse, brief mention of homophobia, brief masturbation.

________________________________________________________________________

In the first week of December, Mary Lou finds out that Creeds does not have a normal part time job. He’s been telling lies about what part time jobs he has, and quit the fast food job months ago to focus on running deliveries for the Hallowers. They pay better, but he can’t tell his mother that he’s working for wizard smugglers. He can’t explain it and can’t think of a good lie fast enough, so she accuses him of stealing. She accuses him of all sorts of other things, being selfish and wicked and a liar. How dare she treat him like this, she says, disrespect everything she’s done for him, throw away all the things she’s done for him over the years?

Usually she doesn’t hit him in places so hard to hide. His mouth stopped bleeding hours ago but his lower lip throbs and stings in time with his heartbeat. He sneaks out very late that night because he can’t stand it and can’t sleep, so he might as well work. Late night deliveries are the worst, terrifying, but well paid. On his way to Eye of Newt, he gets stopped by some huge alphas in an alley. They let him pass because he has the Hallowers’ sign around his neck. Usually he doesn’t dare wear it openly, enchanted though it is to be unnoticeable to muggles. That night he’s so upset and angry he doesn’t care. The alphas’ rumbling voices make him want to run. He forces himself to merely walk faster.

Creeds gets to the Eye of Newt warehouse hours earlier than usual to pick up any short shifts. He ends up sitting in a corner out of the way with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the back stockers organize mysterious crates labeled in languages he doesn’t recognize. It looks far more normal than the smaller places like Tiger’s Chaudron. The people are the most interesting things, the tiny magics they do and the strange things they say.

Honestly he’d been hoping to see Gellert—Grindelwald, he corrects mentally. It wouldn’t do to call him Gellert aloud by accident. He’s met the man five times now since that initial meeting, and three of those times were here in this warehouse. He’d been shocked to see the leader of the entire Hallowers organization that first time, but it turns out not to be so improbable after all. Grindelwald likes to inspect his assets in person. He likes sweet candy, fancy clothing, and for some inexplicable reason he likes Creeds too.

Creeds sits and listens to the wixen in the warehouse talking about broomstick sports and ambrosia potions. The shapeshifters among them arrive through the upper windows as sparrows and pigeons. He never can quite see them do it. Even when he’s staring right at one of them, he can’t process what he sees. He doesn’t see anything, as if reality skipped like a video over the moment of change between animal and human. There’s a bright afterimage when he blinks although he never sees anything flash.

It’s around three A.M. when Grindelwald shows up. He waves away the supervisor and strolls through the rows, keeping out of the workers’ way and watching. He looks like a rich man looking for trouble on his off day, in a butter soft leather jacket over a half-buttoned dress shirt. His undershirt probably costs more than all Creeds’s clothes put together. He notices Creeds and acknowledges him with a fleeting nod. He passes Creeds’s out of the way place more than once, and eventually gestures for him to come down.

Creeds has decided that Grindelwald smells like maple syrup, richer and less chemical-sweet than any syrup Creeds has ever eaten. Creeds hasn’t presented as anything yet, but he hopes he doesn’t present as omega, because there’s no way a nobody muggle like himself could make it safely through the alleyways at night smelling like that. He’d have to hide away like his sister Chastity. Normally he barely notices anyone’s base scent. Grindelwald always smells more noticeable than most people, and today he smells particularly omega. Maybe it’s something to do with whatever suppressants Grindelwald uses, no doubt potions so valuable Creeds would never be allowed to transport them.

Grindelwald is also very good looking. His hair is all gold and white, not a trace of gray. Maybe shapeshifting accounts for that, or maybe magic hair dye. Why not? Creeds thinks it looks…good. Distinguished, he sternly tells the rush of warmth in his belly. Distinguished, at least twice your age, and infinitely more dangerous. And not interested in the welfare of non-magicians like his sisters, no matter what interest he’s taken in Creeds personally. That’s why he won’t confirm when Grindelwald asks, again, who hits him. 

“It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

Creeds shakes his head, eyes on his hand. His swollen lip still throbs, and welts cover his right palm, bruised and raw, his mother’s latest punishment. Grindelwald holds Creeds’s right hand gently in his own. Grindelwald’s other hand on the back of his neck startles him into looking up. His hair is almost entirely white today, eyes gold and hawklike. He looks different day to day, more different than could be excused by a slip of the memory. His hand is very warm on Creeds’s skin. “You know we can help you. All you have to do is ask.”

“I’m a muggle, Mr. Grindelwald.” Creeds winces again at the slip and at his bitterness - just Grindelwald, not sir, a wix so rich and powerful he can choose to eschew titles even as he deals punishments as he pleases for anything from crimes and slights. “Just Grindelwald,” the man corrects absently. “And as for you being a mug, I have my doubts about that. You can ask for help, Creeds. You’re one of ours. You’ll be protected. Who is it? Just give me a name.”

But Creeds isn’t a wizard, and nothing in the world can make him leave his sisters. Whatever Grindelwald says, his muggle sisters would not be safe among the kind of alphas he meets here. He’s strong enough to take it, to escape the burly alphas in the alleyways and take his mother’s beatings to shield his sisters. If he gives Grindelwald a name, his mother’s name, she might be killed. She would deserve it. Creeds can’t provide for his sisters alone, and Hallowers like Lestrange would rather die than let their money and time go to protecting poor muggles like them. He shakes his head.

Grindelwald sighs when Creeds doesn’t answer. He strokes Creeds’s bruised palm with his thumb. The red marks tingle, mellow, and fade. “Our door is open to you, Creeds,” he says, and reaches a hand toward Creeds’s face. He’s done this before but Creeds still startles. He looks wide-eyed at Grindelwald and pulls back partway before going still. Grindelwald smiles faintly and catches Creeds’s chin in his fingers. His eyes drop to Creeds’s mouth. 

He brushes his thumb under Creeds’s split lower lip, leaving a faint tingle of magic behind. Creeds knows without a mirror that the skin heals and the bruising recedes. Grindelwald bends forward to watch the healing, so that even slouching, Creeds has to look down at Grindelwald’s face. Grindelwald looks up at Creeds. Like his hair, the shapeshifter’s eyelashes today are entirely white. 

Shapeshifter, that’s what people say: the Hallowers and their criminals are impossible to identify because they can change their faces, and their leader must be the most skillful shapeshifter of them all. Distinguished, dangerous, Creeds tells himself, only feeding the warmth kindling in his belly and chest. Dangeous, smelling like syrup and offering to kill his mother for him. Syrup, and, bizarrely, molten glass, like in the studio where Remus works. None of this should be arousing. God, what is wrong with him today?

An undecipherable expression flits across Grindelwald’s face. He leans closer. He has his thumb on Creeds’s chin. He tilts his head, a tiny gesture, and for a heart-stopping moment it looks to Creeds like Grindelwald is going to bare his throat and kiss him. Instead, Grindelwald hugs him. His jacket is the smoothest leather against Creeds’s cheek. He smells like fire, candied fire — have magicians invented such a thing? Grindelwald presses a warm hand between Creeds’s shoulder blades and Creeds trembles. He’s almost sure Grindelwald has been flirting with him but he’s far too uncertain, and today too scattered, to ask. 

Grindelwald draws back far enough to turn Creeds’s face in his hands. “Take care of yourself, Creeds,” Grindelwald says gently. Creeds sways and chases after the touch when Grindelwald pulls away his hands. Grindelwald smiles faintly and walks away, leaving Creeds to his embarrassment and confused emotions.

After that, Creeds feels so tired and off-balance he doesn’t pick up a night shift after all. People avoid him more than usual in the alleys on the way home. They stand on the opposite end of the L car he chooses. This is fine with Creeds, because he’s distracted thinking about why it’s a bad idea to be attracted to your dark wizard crime lord boss. He’s lucky nobody jumps him on the way back to take advantage of his distraction.

He intends to take a cold shower when he gets home but for some reason the water feels even colder than usual. He turns it warmer, shivering uncomfortably, not daring to turn it hot like he wants. He jerks off as efficiently as possible under the lukewarm water, helplessly remembering Grindelwald’s slight smile and his hand on Creeds’s neck. 

Creeds has never had so much trouble staying quiet, biting his lip almost hard enough to make it bleed again, shaking uncontrollably. He comes so hard he nearly drops to his knees. He scrubs himself roughly a second time with extra soap but his own smell seems to stick to him. He gives up and falls into bed around five, too tired to dry his hair, still shivering. If he’s coming down with something that would be just his luck. He falls asleep uneasily, imagining he can taste syrup on his tongue.

________________________________________________________________________

Percival wouldn’t usually have to be present for something as minor as this. However, Grindelwald had offered to be there personally for the exchange of documents, and Percival prefers to be present for such interactions. One of Grindelwald’s businesses has been tagged as a possible money laundering front, so the auror department has asked to go through their financial records. It might be part of the Hallower protectorate, as well, though they’re unlikely to be able to prove that detail, even if they can identify the outgoing payments.

Percival and three other aurors arrive at the Snally Swing a few hours before it opens to pick up the files. A heavily tattooed puckwudgie unlocks the glass front doors for them, grumbling. The Snally Swing is a trendy dance club, wood floors and furniture contrasting with deliberately exposed pipes, bare light bulbs, and rafters. Witches in sweaters printed with the club’s name set up hundreds of gold and white fairy lights to float overhead and above the tables, while glittering enchanted snow is already falling from the ceiling. 

The puckwudgie leads them around clusters of tables toward the bar, where an unusually tall goblin woman is setting out glasses and chatting with none other than Grindelwald. As Percival and the aurors approach, a big frosted glass etching of a snallygaster snarls impressively at them from over the top shelf. It moves noiselessly, flaring its wings and snapping its fanged beak. The bartender’s long limbs are as knobbly and twisted as tree branches, and her ashy skin is the same color and texture as the wooden counters. Grindelwald, leaning casually on the bar, stands out like one of the fairy lights among a loose circle of bodyguards dressed all in black. He says something to the bartender in a gravelly, chains-on-pavement language, and she laughs like a can full of pebbles, flashing black needle-shaped teeth. She is still grinning when her eyes fall on the aurors, and Grindelwald has a similarly vivid smile as he turns to face them.

“Gentlemen,” he says graciously, reaching out to shake Percival’s hand. “We apologize for any inconvenience, Mr. Grindelwald,” Percival says, shaking the offered hand firmly. “It’s no trouble at all. Solomon, will you please fetch the records we discussed?” The puckwudgie nods and stumps off around the back of the bar and out of sight. Grindelwald turns back to the aurors and adds, “I hope official copies will be sufficient.” 

Grindelwald must be headed to an afternoon gala after this, based on his fancy clothes. He must have a lot of confusion charms on that clothing to wear it in public, because it pretty much looks like European dress robes, icy blue velvet with brilliant silver embroidery at the neckline. He’s quite striking and probably not gender appropriate for the muggle elite. Mugs can be particular about these things. Behind him, Grindelwald’s barrel-chested bodyguards glower stoically around the room and at the aurors. One of his bodyguards is acting as a coat rack, holding an honest to god cloak, royal blue with silver fastenings and white fur lining. The alpha in question catches Percival looking and gives him a once over, seeming unimpressed.

“It was two years of financial records, correct?” Grindelwald asks, the picture of cooperation. “That’s right,” Percival says, “Two years of records from the swing club and the brewery.” Grindelwald smiles. “Excellent. I’ve had them sort out to three years back. Let us know if you need to take a look at that third year or anything else.” The auror investigator with them interjects, “Three years would be great. We also need your supplier list for the brewery and the bar.”

Grindelwald raises his eyebrows. “I’m afraid you’ll have to return with a court order for that information. We have a non-competition agreement with our suppliers and we only give out our list as required by law.” At Percival’s elbow, one of the aurors scoffs. “Non-competition? What on earth for?”

“We work with class B restricted ingredients,” Grindelwald replies smoothly. “It’s a competitive area. I’m sure you understand. Ah, thank you, Solomon.” The puckwudgie has returned with a crate half-full of folders, elbowing Grindelwald’s bodyguards out of the way at the shins. He plunks the crate down between Grindelwald and the aurors. “Anything else for you, Grindelwald?” he asks gruffly. 

“The aurors have decided they would like that extra year of records, would you bring those out please?” Grindelwald says. The puckwudgie nods and heads back down the hall out of sight. A slightly more mischievous smile spreads across Grindelwald’s face as he looks back up at Percival. “Have you caught your arsonists yet, Auror Graves?”

Percival doesn’t feel like making it that easy for him. “The auror department is doing our utmost to identify those responsible and keep the public safe,” he says, not letting Grindelwald’s widening grin ruffle him. There have been several magical arson cases in the past few months, mostly of abandoned mug buildings. The latest was set on fire just days before the muggles intended to knock it down anyway. None of the construction equipment or fencing had been effected or any neighboring buildings. 

Whoever runs the decision making process for the arsons has decided they’re safe enough to be cheeky. The building didn’t even burn down, just part of it, so that if you stand in the right place the holes in the building spell out comments about Percival Graves’s ass. They haven’t claimed official responsibility yet but it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that this one was the Hallowers’ fault.

“So lucky no-one was hurt,” Grindelwald says pleasantly, still grinning like a shark. “Shapeshifters were observed leaving the scene,” Percival says, a touch impulsively. Grindelwald widens his eyes innocently. “Oh, I heard, it was discussed in thorough detail by the papers. Fiendfyre, was it?”

“Something like that,” Percival says. Fiendfyre would have been much worse, to be truthful. The arsons have been with unnatural fire that doesn’t spread, which is good, but also means more memory modification. “If this goes on too long memory charms aren’t going to work as well on the muggle firefighters,” Percival comments. “What a shame,” Grindelwald says, grinning at them. It’s a joke on the aurors, and they’re all in on it. Percival’s aurors are fuming by the time they leave with the rest of the papers. 

“You have to admire his nerve,” Percival says. The investigator just huffs and adjusts his grip on the crate. Nothing significant happened with that meeting, as far as he can tell, and they have bigger concerns than Grindelwald making jokes about his own arsons. An apothecary shop owner has gone missing, and a box full of records was left anonymously on the department doorstep indicating she’d been involved in illegal potions smuggling. There’s been a third mystery explosion on the south side, which left no recognizable spell residue and Newt Scamander insists it can’t be due to dragon activity. The obliviators are already in overtime for the week and it’s only Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grindelwald is an incorrigible flirt and his hobby is making everyone’s lives more difficult, and Percy is really done. For the record, Creeds doesn’t know he’s an alpha yet, but there’s a really good reason Gellert can tell at this point, which you will find out sooooon. 
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @tiny-trashcan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shoves more HP characters into the background of this fic* [Also I made an aesthetic post on tumblr for this fic.](https://tiny-trashcan.tumblr.com/post/175625582277/chicago-teeth-my-moral-principles-are-not-the-same)
> 
> Chapter four warnings: graphic depictions of verbal abuse, threats of child abuse, and homophobia. Seriously, second half of this chapter was NOT fun to write.

________________________________________________________________________

Upon apparating to the inside doorstep of a certain hotel room, the first thing Abraxas Malfoy sees is a werewolf. The werewolf would be exceedingly difficult to miss. It takes up much of the entryway with its bulk even when seated on the floor. Its keen eyes appear luminous and spectral even in broad daylight. A barrier of translucent magic hangs in the air between the werewolf and the man, hemming Abraxas with his back to the door.

Abraxas adjusts the cuffs of his coat and gives the werewolf a cool look. “Good afternoon, Scabior,” he says disdainfully. Even he, who avoids the werewolves when at all possible, recognizes the inhuman face of Grindelwald’s favorite lieutenant. Werewolves either can’t or won’t speak in their full form, not to someone like Abraxas, but Scabior returns the Malfoy patriarch’s disdainful look well enough in silence. “My name is Abraxas Hermès Malfoy, and the password is ‘augury,’” Abraxas says. The werewolf nods his great dark head. The magical barrier dissolves just long enough for Abraxas to pass though. Scabior’s eyes follow him as he brushes by.

“Good of you to join us, Abraxas,” Gellert says with a touch of amusement when Abraxas steps out of the hall. Gellert is always the first to arrive at the Hallower leadership meetings. The muggle hotel used changes every time, but the room always looks exactly the same: ornate wooden furniture, unadorned walls, wine-colored carpets and cushions. Astronomical instruments hang suspended along the ceiling, glittering like peculiar flocks of birds. Gellert enjoys transfiguration as a hobby, so he says, and so claims the responsibility of modifying whatever room they use to his own preferences. 

That claim has the additional benefit of allowing Gellert to flaunt his bottomless magical strength. Very few wixen would refer to making and unmaking such extensive wards every fortnight as a mere hobby, as he well knows. As always, the heavily transfigured meeting space smells faintly but distinctly of Gellert’s magic, at once syrupy and crisp. 

Gellert himself lounges in an armchair, shuffling a deck of tarot cards. Two more werewolves recline at his feet, shapeshifted into massive rottweilers. Abraxas graces him with a tiny ironical bow. The werewolves’ eyes follow him impassively. Gellert grins crookedly and glances at one of the cards in his deck. 

Abraxas sits in an empty chair between a brooding Cygnus Lestrange and the eldest member of the group, Erin Howell. She’s the only nonmagician, and she has as much steel in her spine as Gellert himself. Her lemongrass scent has lost almost all other identifying elements, but the alpha wizards on either side do not phase her in the slightest. She exchanges a curt nod with Abraxas and returns to arranging her papers on the table between the chairs. One of her folders teeters on the edge of the table, in danger of spilling its contents on the floor. One of the werewolves stands, walks to her side, and nudges the folder back in place with his nose. “Thank you, Khalid,” Howell says. The werewolf perks his ears and resumes his place next to Gellert’s chair.

“These two needed their shifts to be checked,” Gellert explains to the room at large. He’s speaking about the werewolves. That’s probably true and also an excuse. Being present at a meeting is a sign of favor, the kind of favor Gellert tends to offer the werewolves more often than any other constituent group within the Hallowers. Like most of the werewolves in the city, they are shapeshifters as well as werewolves now. Shapeshifting allows the werewolves to avoid the worst consequences of their situation, giving them control over what form to take and when.

Being treated as regular wixen, however, is not guaranteed. “When is the next full moon, Grindelwald?” Cygnus Lestrange asks, giving the werewolves a skeptical look. “Next Tuesday,” Gellert says casually. He watches Cygnus sits back, doing his best not to look ruffled by Gellert’s calculating look. Erin Howell snorts and Abraxas momentarily looks equally amused. 

“Helena,” Gellert says, rising to his feet, dismissing Cygnus’s lingering discomfort by ignoring it. Helena Rosier glides into the room. She bows to Gellert far more regally than Abraxas had. The black of her overcoat is as glossy as the shapeshifted werewolves’ rottweiler-black fur. Gellert takes her hand and kisses it. “How is your wife?” he asks warmly. “The usual,” Helena replies, shrugging out of her coat, which floats away in a waft of alpha and frankincense to hang itself up in the closet. 

“Enchanting and difficult?” Gellert clarifies with a grin, which broadens at Helena’s look of dignified exasperation. “A girl after your own heart,” she says. “Exactly,” Gellert laughs. “Women and omegas can never be too badly behaved.”

“Will Riddle be joining us?” Helena asks, seating herself gracefully. “I expect not,” Gellert says. “He has business to attend at the rail depot. Greengrass will join us later.” Erin Howell makes a disparaging sound. “Does that mean I’m repeating the entire budget proposal for Greengrass to tear apart?” she asks. “Greengrass can read,” Helena Rosier says reprovingly, and Howell cracks a smile.

There follows a discussion on budgeting, with much time spent debating the minutia of transport costs and overhead and protectionist payment brackets. Howell reads out what amounts to import tax regulations on runespoor venom, and a review of the auror anti-smuggling division’s latest efforts. MACUSA makes its rules, and Gellert and his cohort make their own in response. It would be a menace to society to sell runespoor venom to just anyone, and if you do you’ll end up looking more like the Felixers, which is part of why they must have these relatively uninteresting meetings. One of the werewolves dozes, scrunched awkwardly upright against Gellert’s armchair with her nose right by his elbow. 

They do not discuss Riddle’s “business.” His enforcers are a continuous source of conflict these days, coordinating poorly with Gellert’s informal favorites, necessitating personal intervention from Gellert more than once. Today was scheduled as an uncontroversial financial meeting, so any discussion of violent methods will be relegated as usual until after the paperwork is in order.

In a pause between serious topics, Abraxas summons a teaset and pours tea for each of them. Gellert deliberately takes the last one, with tea leaves settling in the bottom of the eggshell-thin cup. “I have a proposal letter from Burke here,” Howell mentions, stirring sugar into her tea. “Something about unicorn horn and occamy shells. Wants a ceasefire for that aspect of nontradables.” Cygnus Lestrange snorts. “Felices have a strange concept of ceasefire in that case. Burke’s as slimy as Slughorn himself.” 

Gellert reshuffles his tarot cards while the others continue to talk quietly. He idly begins to lay out cards for one of the young mugs who works the transport line. Creeds Barebone is exactly the sort of beautiful young pre-alpha muggle Gellert would have enjoyed seducing at one point, wary from a hard life and likely starved for uncomplicated affection. Muggle may not be entirely accurate for Creeds, in fact, though he’s far too skittish for Gellert to be certain. There’s a backwards familiarity about him, and not just because of his tragic air and striking face. The Sight is a great deal less useful than people tend to think in many cases, and beyond sympathy and some personal curiosity, Gellert can’t be sure what to think of the young man.

“I think we need to revisit the topic of misidentified children,“ Gellert says. He sips his unsweetened black tea with a grimace. Something feels off in the cards, the ones he laid out for Creeds. Gellert does not turn them over, but takes them back up and reshuffles the deck. “Still not impressed with Hogwarts, are we?” Helena says, with a tone meant to provoke. Gellert gives her a sideways look. 

“I will not be impressed with any single institution which fails to provide safe accomodations for nonhuman and omega students and refuses to teach entire branches of magic because they are ‘dark,’” he replies testily. They have been over this topic before. “Even the Mungo’s Clinic is the same,” Helena says, shaking her head in wonderment and accepting a refill on her tea. “Practically no blood rite training to be seen anywhere in the system. I would never trust a Mungo’s trained healer with my wife’s health, knowing what I know. If there were any complications, why, even a muggle transfusion would be less barbaric.”

“You’ve been out of the country for her condition?” Abraxas asks, flicking his wand so the pieces of the teaset straighten themselves. The empty teapot refills and begins to steam. “Yes, to the First Nations,” Helena says. “We’ve been to that specialist you suggested. They’re so much more pragmatically minded about certain areas.”

“Speaking of international specialists,” Cygnus interjects, “did you know the aurors arrested a pair of betas for trying to invent fiendfyre starter matches? Only a few days ago. Nearly set their whole building on fire.”

“They couldn’t contain it, and they got caught,” Gellert comments. “Otherwise I might have offered them a job.” Cygnus says something about theoretical containment of cursed elements, but Gellert is no longer listening.

He has laid out another set of cards for Creeds Barebone, all except the last one. He hesitates with his hand poised midair, listening. The atmosphere in the room thickens almost imperceptibly. The others’ conversation seems to fade into the background. Gellert holds the last card in the set in his hand, still facedown, and a shivering weight looms heavily over him while he hesitates. Which way should this last card be turned? Pressure shortens his breath, stiffens the joints of his fingers, pushes at his eardrums. 

Finally, reluctantly, Gellert lays down the last card. All the pressure goes back out of the room at once. He takes a carefully even breath. One of the werewolves lifts her head and looks up at him, no doubt noticing his rapidly beating heart. Nobody else appears to have noticed the presence that passed over and through the room. He turns over the cards now, all but the last one. 

They are all images of conflict, both too vague and too specific. The Hierophant, which insists upon its own way, and the catastrophe of the Tower. The death of a stranger will be significant. Gellert sips the last dregs of his tea and turns the cup slowly. The tea leaves look like Scorpio battling Taurus, like a cathedral sanctuary burning from within. He rolls his eyes and sets the cup down again. Conflict, perhaps for Creeds, or perhaps more of the usual he gets for himself. Never once has he seen hope spelled out in tea leaves. He reaches for Creeds’s final card. 

It turns out to be the Magician, reversed. The illustration stares up out of the card with dark eyes, a wizard pictured in the movement just after lowering the hood of his coak. The cloak blends with the twining border of the card, a blend of silver and shadows. Upside-down, the figure seems to hang suspended in the air, as equally believable as he would be upright. Gellert lets his fingertips linger on the card’s edge. Very rarely does the Magician reflect a person’s mere identity as wix or otherwise. Reversed, it can mean a person is manipulated or manipulator, a victim not necessarily without power or future. Upright, it can mean success or talent. Reversed, that power is not removed, simply not yet visible.

The bitterness of the tea lingers on his tongue. He vanishes the cryptic image in the tea leaves and pours himself a second cup to steep, new leaves swirling. He’s never liked drinking tea without sugar. Sight has little to do with personal comfort. He leaves the sugar bowl on the table untouched.

________________________________________________________________________

It hadn’t been a fever after all, but something very like it. Creeds spends the next few days fighting through his first rut, which is short and intensely uncomfortable. Sexuality is supposed to be mostly enjoyable, based on the sly comments people make and his mother’s railing against it. This felt like a form of torture combined with the flu. His room smells like a warehouse full of tea and something nasty caught on fire. Everything smells too strong, including his own body. He tastes as much as smells himself as sweat and smoke, alpha and bitter ashes.

His mother and Chastity, though omegas, smell like family, neither attractive nor particularly helpful. Chastity is worried, probably for her own safety as much as for him. Her distress if possible makes him feel worse, her delicate sweetness turned cloying with stress. Mary Lou’s perpetually angry smell of dry leaves blankets them all, even more stifling with his newly intensified awareness. It makes him angrier with her, if possible, in the spans where he’s lucid enough to do much more than writhe against his bedsheets.

He’s presented as an alpha, a traditional enough role for a man. His mother approves of this in theory but in practice it means she won’t touch him. She won’t let either of the girls near him either. Creeds hears her growling at Chastity for offering to take food in to him. Mary Lou acts like Creeds’s rut has turned him into a slavering animal, and he may be having trouble thinking straight, but he’s in no danger of touching his sisters, thanks. The mere suggestion is enough to make him literally throw up in their grimy bathroom. If anything the rut makes him want to protect his sisters even more, burning in his veins, but there are no other alphas to defend against, only their insane omega mother. Creeds wonders savagely if maybe he should let Grindelwald kill her, whether it might not be worth the risk after all to be free of her. 

The thought of Grindelwald (syrup, fine clothes, dangerous, omega) sends another wave of the rut over him and he curls in on himself, equally aroused and upset. The rut builds a nest in his pelvis and takes up residence there, burning and clawing at him. It hurts more than anything else after the first hour or so, and he feels like throwing up every time he moves too fast. Even if Chastity were allowed in to feed him, he can barely keep down what little he scrounges on his own. There are waves of desperate loneliness, too, irrational in their suddenness and intensity.

He waits until everyone else is out of the apartment every day to get food and water out of the kitchen, to avoid getting his sisters in trouble for who knows what. Mary Lou avoiding Creeds would be a good thing except that it means the girls have to bear the full brunt of her temper. She barely raises her voice at anyone for three days, but Creeds can smell the tension in the apartment more clearly than ever before. Something bad is going to happen, he knows. 

When the rut finally ends on the third day, he falls asleep for nearly twelve hours. He wakes up feeling slightly more lucid, lightheaded with hunger, and generally disgusting. The others are still in the house when he shuffles out to the kitchen. He needs a shower, badly, but he doesn’t think he can do anything useful without eating first. He’s mostly through eating a second peanut butter sandwich when Mary Lou walks in from the girls’ room. He slows down how fast he’s eating and keeps his eyes on his plate. He can tell she’s glaring at him, and hunches his shoulders defensively. 

She walks past him, gathering up clean dishes to put away, moving bowls and a dirty skillet from the stove into the sink. She turns on the water and he can hear the sounds of scrubbing. He doesn’t turn to look. Having her standing behind him out of sight sends a chill up his neck. She doesn’t say anything. He keeps eating as quietly as he can. His head feels full of static and he can taste her anger like a mouthful of pepper. He wishes he could turn invisible. He wishes she were anywhere except here. He wishes he were someone important or frightening, someone who could do magic. He wishes for anything that would let him take himself and his sisters away from here and vanish without a trace. The longer the silence expands between them, the more he feels afraid. 

“You’ve made a complete mess, no doubt,” she says abruptly. “It’s more than I expected for you to be obedient to nature. God only knows what I’d have had to do if you were an omega.”

A sick wave of anger sweeps through Creeds. Male omegas are just as much a part of nature as male alphas, but she wouldn’t care. If she could surgically remove his sexuality from him, she probably would, personally. Why not his gender, too, if it were something she did not approve? He is relieved not to be an omega because of how she would treat him. At the same time, there’s always something, always one more incurably terrible thing he’s done. He bites his tongue hard and the pain keeps him silent. 

“Have you finished with it, then?” she says. “With — the presentation? I’m not sure. I think so?” He doesn’t know why she expects him to know. He’s never done this before. He continues to eat his sandwich. Modesty walks out a minute later with her backpack, dressed for school. Her face lights up to see Creeds and she makes as though to give him a hug. He stops her with a shake of his head, not wanting to get his sticky, sweaty scent on her. She gets herself a bowl of cereal and starts to eat, glancing at Mary Lou’s back. When he’s lucky, Mary Lou waits until Modesty has left for school before getting angry at Creeds. Today is not lucky.

“So. Who is he?”  
Creeds has no idea what she’s talking about. “Ma’am?”

Soapy water sloshes around her hands. She lifts the heavy pan up to rinse it with deceptively calm movements. “The omega you met. I don’t recall giving my permission for you to leave, but I know you met with someone. Who is he?” The bottom drops out of his stomach. Is this about the Hallower work? How did she know he’d left? She can’t possibly have known he was sneaking out at night or she would have put a stop to it. The handle of the pan clanks against the faucet and he itches to turn around, to put his back to a wall.

“Young man, acknowledge me when I speak to you,” she says softly.  
“Yes ma’am,” he answers, mind racing.  
“Have you got anything to say for yourself?” Mary Lou demands, her voice no louder but biting enough to make him flinch. He swallows. “I didn’t meet anyone.” 

“Liar.” She hisses like a fractured pipe. She stalks right up to his chair and points at him with the dripping pan. “I could smell a strange omega on your clothes, Credence Barebone. Do not lie to me!” The skillet is probably the heaviest piece of cookware they own. He twists in his seat, trying to lean away, anxiety crawling down his back like a swarm of ants. “But,” he says, though he shouldn’t disagree, should never ever contradict her. “There wasn’t. I don’t…”

Mary Lou turns around and slams the pan down on the stove, where they leave the biggest dishes to dry. He frantically searches for an explanation, an excuse for whatever she’s talking about. She could smell it on his clothes, she says. Creeds is impressed she could smell much of anything unusual over his own rut. Unfortunately she’s probably right, he realizes. Grindelwald had touched him, hugged him even, the day before his rut started. Creeds had thought he’d been imagining the man’s scent in his room but maybe he was wrong. 

“I would never have expected you to sleep with a man and dare come back to my apartment,” Mary Lou says, glaring at him. He shakes his head with growing horror, unable to find words that will convince her he didn’t, didn’t sleep with anyone, there wasn’t an omega, it was just a friend.

Mary Lou’s fury builds with every second he fails to reply. Modesty suddenly slams her spoon down on the table. “So what if he has a boyfriend?” she says shrilly. “I haven’t got my presentation yet and even I can tell Creeds has been miserable. If you just let him get a boyfriend like everyone else he would have felt a lot better and it wouldn’t have hurt anyone!”

“Mod,” Creeds says in a low voice. He’s terrified, terrified of making this worse, hates how much he is afraid. Modesty keeps going. “It’s only you that thinks gays are disgusting. You’re the one that’s disgusting! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

Creeds’s eyes widen with horror. Mary Lou draws herself up, enraged. “That is enough!” She marches around the table and yanks Modesty up out of the chair, probably bruising her arms. “How dare you speak to me like that! Credence will receive the punishment he deserves for his sins, and you, young lady, will wash your mouth for saying such things.” She shoves Modesty toward the kitchen sink so hard Modesty stumbles and bangs her forearms on the counter.

“No I will not!” Modesty yells, turning her back to the sink and glaring up at their mother. “You always get mad at Credence no matter what he does! You’re going to hit him again and he hasn’t even done anything!”

“Modesty, Mother, please,” Creeds begs. He wants to stand up and get physically in between them, but Mary Lou wheels around and points a warning finger in his face. Her snarl pins him. Behind her, Chastity appears in the entry to the hall, ashen-faced.

“You’re a terrible mother,” Modesty screams, holding her arm and starting to cry. “I hate you! We all hate you!” Mary Lou whirls around and grabs the heavy skillet off the stove, her face twisted with rage. She draws back to swing at Modesty and Creeds feels like everything slows to a crawl. Chastity is screaming, Modesty is raising her hands in front of her face, and he leaps to his feet, but it won’t be enough, not if Mary Lou gets her with that full swing.

Creeds’s fear and anger boil in his chest, painful like hot tar burning him from the inside. His mouth tastes like smoke and ash. The world explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I could have made this one and the previous chapter one really long chapter instead of two relatively short chapters. Anyone have a preference?
> 
> Helena Rosier is inspired (obviously only tangentially) by the female Rosier on the cast list for FBCOG. Her first name must not have been released when I added her in. The official name appears to be Vinda Rosier (actress Poppy Corby-Tuech) but I like the name Helena so I’m not changing it. For the record, I don't like to get into dramatics, but I don't picture Grindelwald as Depp for various reasons, including that he's just not scary enough. I prefer Damian Lewis or, better yet, an older version of Jamie C. Bower.
> 
> As usual, yell @ me on tumblr (tiny-trashcan). *is promptly shot for cliffhanger*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter while I fix things to make up for the cliffhanger. Not as stressfull as the last chapter but Creeds is still having a bad time in the first part. On the plus side, Percy is here to save the day!
> 
> Chapter five warnings: mentions of child-abuse, non-graphic violence, abuse victim having an emotional crisis

________________________________________________________________________

Chaos assaults the aurors the moment they apparate in, welcoming them with crashes and screams. Tina and her team immediately take off running out of the alley towards sounds of crumbling walls and splintering beams. The latest mystery explosion is in progress, this time a muggle apartment building being attacked in broad daylight. Car alarms screech. Mugs run in all directions. Tina yells instructions as they run. “Abernathy and Lucas to the left, Poll and Freedman to the right. Ruben, check for Scamander!”

They round a corner and they see it at last, the mystery dark magic. One side of the attacked building caves in on itself into a mind-bending, twisting, screaming maw of darkness. Clouds of dust and black ash rise from the whirling Thing in the center. The building groans and its middle floors folds inward, its top levels inexplicably staying upright, more rubble exploding out of all the floors beneath. The Thing claws chunks out of neighboring buildings, exposing rebar with an inorganic screech.

None of them have seen anything like it before. It’s a mark of their training that the aurors do not stop running towards the Thing. They immediately don face mask charms to protect against dust and flying glass. “Meta-curse trappers watch for Team Charlie!” Tina shouts, redirecting a flying chunk of sheetrock away from a fleeing civilian with a burst of violet sparks. “Containment is still top priority!”

Tina’s team scatters to obey her as Percival and two more teams of aurors come charging up from the opposite end of the street. Brilliant white warding arcs up behind them as they run, the beginnings of a giant concealing barrier they can only hope will work against it. Tina and her group send rapid fire spells trying to hold up the teetering building. 

The dark Thing slams through the first round of support spells, sending a shockwave rippling out into the streets. Percival points one team around the block and takes up position with the other. The line of aurors throws barrier spells like projectile weapons, herding the Thing down and in, while more glass shatters out of the windows all the way up the apartment and two more buildings next to it. The Thing screams one more time and contracts out of sight. Tina and Percival swipe nearly simultaneous spells overhead, turning the falling glass into showers of feathers and sand. 

Sirens begin to wail from across the city. A cacophony of hissing steam, creaking, yells, and car alarms echoes oddly within the vast warding dome. Percival swears vehemently. “Radio charms still won’t hold. It’s not gone,” one of the aurors calls, keeping trained on the wrecked building. Graves begins to give sharp orders. “Backup Charlie and Alpha, find a way to talk to Team Bravo. Patronuses are too obvious. Help them stabilize the structure and pin down containment. Front Team Alpha and Charlie with me.” 

Aurors fan out systematically on the rubble-filled streets. The apartment groans under its own weight. Their second round of support spells take and hold, and the Thing does not reappear. More aurors run through the barrier from the outside, forced on foot by the containment’s anti-apparition wards. Once inside they apparate within reach of Percival and Tina. “Scamander, did you see it?” Percival asks as Newt skids to a halt beside him. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Newt pants. “Can’t be sure. Could be a large creature with powerful concealment abilities.”

“What do you need to confirm whether it’s something alive?” Percival asks. “I need to go up there,” Newt says promptly, pointing to the gaping hole in the ruined building. “Building stable for now, sir,” one of the aurors says. Percival nods. “Front Alpha Charlie, prepare to enter. Flank the beasts unit. Scamander, if you go in without backup I’ll personally kick your ass.” Newt smiles fleetingly before they all apparate up into the building.

What was once an apartment has become a precarious ledge, all its exterior walls blown out. The atmosphere carries a shivering electricity, potent and watchful. Newt exhales softly. Cautiously, they make their way inside. Rubble and beams and destroyed furniture have spilled down through holes in the ceiling from multiple floors overhead. The air is thick from dust. Broken pipes spray water; electrical lines spark and smoke. The aurors stay as evenly fanned out as possible, clearing each mostly ruined room in hushed voices, expecting an ambush any moment. They put out small fires and advance in as a wall, lit wands raised. The layout of the floor is nearly unrecognizable, and in many places there is no floor, just crumbling holes punched down several stories. 

There’s no sign of the source yet, only crashes from more falling pieces of wall. They excavate a few mugs buried under rubble and take them down into the street out of the way, half hysterical. They’ll be convinced later that they were extracted by non-magical first responders, but for now, the aurors need them out of the way. Overall, even with the din in the streets, the building is ominously quiet. 

They switch floors, apparating by steps, and finally make their way to what appears to be the epicenter. Everything except a few load bearing beams have been blasted away. Invisible magic swirls unmistakably in the air. Newt seems mesmerized. Graves and Tina follow closely, keeping out a sharp eye for movement. The floor of a hallway trembles beneath their feet. The aurors’ reinforcement spells from outside hold it up for now, but it could buckle easily under renewed magical force. Under the spitting of damaged wiring, there are other sounds too soft to identify. Newt suddenly holds out a hand and goes still. They all freeze.

There it is. The massive Thing from outside looks like smoke and black ink suspended in water. It writhes slowly, a disturbingly organic shape flowing around the scorched shell of what might have once been an apartment’s front room. The soft sounds are closer, but vague and muffled.

“Mercy Lewis,” someone mutters. Instantly the static in the air sharpens and the Thing roils, washing back up against one wall like the reverse movement of an ocean wave. Newt gestures to them and takes a few slow steps back. The Thing has no face, no eyes, but it sees them. The terrible pressure of its attention weighs upon them. 

“Dementor nest?” one of Newt’s unit whispers uncertainly. _No,_ Percival thinks, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He can smell it now, a terrible wood fire and chemical and ash smell, and a familiar tang underneath. “That is not a creature,” Newt breathes. Almost too quietly to hear, Tina asks, “Is it alive?” She has followed Newt’s example and is backing away very slowly. “It looks like one of two things,” Newt says softly. He turns his head just enough to make a moment of eye contact with Percival. “Graves, could that be a Miasma Curse?” 

Percival has his eyes riveted to the Thing. He shakes his head slowly, as though in a vision. He very slowly begins to put his wand away. “Graves,” one of his team hisses in alarm. “Are there any known wixen living at this address?” he asks quietly. “No sir,” someone answers, “All the witnesses are mugs for sure. Why? What is it?” _No,_ Perce thinks again, but he knows what the Thing is, now that Newt’s suggested it. “That’s not a what,” Newt explains, continuing to back slowly away, his hands now raised in an I’m-unarmed gesture. “That’s a who. He is.” 

“What?” one of the aurors asks. “Obscurial,” Percival says softly. _“What?”_ Tina repeats, but Percival waves her back. He’s recognized the sounds, now, too. Someone very close by is crying quietly. “All alphas retreat ten yards,” he orders in a completely calm voice. “Situation has changed. Containment only. Do not engage.” It is a ‘he,’ Newt is right; Percival can smell him now, that tang beneath the ashy burning stench. Under the fear and magic and pain is the smell of human magic, an acrid tang of a new alpha, wix, male. There hasn’t been a confirmed obscurial in the U.S. since 1926, but he’s seen the photographs. He knows what they did to it, too. It shouldn’t have to end like that. “Gently,” Newt whispers.

Percival takes a tiny step forward with his hands raised. The Thing billows and swirls, obscurus and obscurial. Its aggressive attention weighs on Percival; _his_ attention. Percival stops. “We’re not here to hurt you,” he says, keeping still. “My name is Percy. Can you hear me?”

No clear response. The obscurus flows and swirls. Percival allows a long pause before he speaks again. “My friends and I are here to help you. You’re not in trouble from us. Did someone try to hurt you?” The obscurus shifts, swirling more slowly. Percival counts out five breaths and continues. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I want to help.”

He waits, watching anxiously even as he keeps his scent and expression calm. The smoke begins to gather together at the back of the destroyed room, compacting into a figure of shadow and tatters. He can hear the crying more clearly now and see more of the kitchen and splintered remnants of furniture. A mostly intact table leans against the wall with at least two of its legs missing. The obscurial drifts and settles in front of it, faceless for the moment but still watching him.

“That’s good,” Percival says gently. “Is there someone else back there? Do they need help too?” He takes a small step forward. Instantly the figure fixes him with blank white eyes. The shadows swirl uneasily. “I’m sorry,” Percival says, and takes the step back. “I should have asked. May I come over to you?”

“Graves,” one of the aurors says again. Percival already sees the body, and deliberately does not look. The aurors’ concern smells crisp and distracting, but it’s nothing to the electric presence of the half-formed person in front of him. “If someone is hurt, I can help,” Percival repeats. The shadows hesitate. “Please,” Percival says, “Let me help.”

Some decision seems to have been reached, because at once and without a sound, the shade materializes into a person. He is a boy, or rather, a young man, barefoot and windswept, bent and shivering. In physical form, his distress rolls off him in waves of bitter alpha scent. He’s a very young alpha, must have just presented, and Percival could almost choke on this stranger’s misery. Percival wants to help him. The horror of knowing what an obscurus is and where it comes from wells in his chest, but he keeps his voice low and scent calm. “That’s good,” Percival encourages. “What’s your name?”

The young alpha stares at him, wild-eyed and still shaking. He’s probably in shock and needs medical attention, but he’s still dangerous. Percival waits. The young man just watches, quaking with suppressed sobs. The other sound of weeping does not match his breathing. There are definitely other people here somewhere Percival can’t see. “You must be having a really rough morning,” Percival says to him. “I’m sorry it’s been hard. My name is Percy, remember. Would you tell me your name?”

The young man hunches his shoulders and glances furtively up the hall, to all the wixen standing behind Percival. He glances at Percival’s face and whispers a word. One of the aurors mutters something at the same moment, and Percival hears Tina shushing them fiercely. “Sorry, I didn’t hear,” Percival says steadily. “Will you say it again?”

“Creeds,” whispers the young man. “Creeds,” Percival repeats. “Thank you. May I come over to you please, Creeds?” The young man’s eyes keep flickering with sharp, glazed fear at the other aurors behind him. Percival understands the protocols for why they’re staying, but wishes they would back farther away all the same. “They won’t hurt you, I promise. They’re worried, that’s all. May I come over to you?”

From the rubble of the kitchen comes a tiny sound. Creeds takes a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes fix on Percival. This young wizard is powerful and volatile, and the full force of his attention sends chills down Percival’s back. “She was going to kill my sister,” Creeds tells him, in a voice turned hoarse from an unknown mix of crying and screaming. The tiny sound repeats, from behind the table, Percival thinks, keeping his eyes on Creeds’s pale face. “Is your sister hurt?” Percival asks.

“I couldn’t let her kill my sister,” Creeds says dazedly. He doesn’t seem to have heard Percival’s question, or else can’t think clearly enough to answer. “Credence?” says a tiny wavering voice. Percival keeps his eyes on Creeds. “Please let us help,” he says. “May I come over to you?”  
After an infinitely long moment of staring at a point over Percival’s shoulder, Creeds nods. He’s definitely in shock, breathing shallowly and with his face so very pale. Percival takes measured steps towards him, hands held out, offering empty palms. Being empty handed by no means makes Percival harmless or unarmed, but that’s completely beside the point when he has no intention of doing harm. Movement comes from behind the broken table. A piece of unidentifiable rubble crunches under Percival’s boots and Creeds flinches. Percival pauses, waiting for Creeds to focus on him again. 

“Is that your sister?” Percival asks softly, meaning the sounds behind the table. “Credence?” comes the voice again, thin and frightened. Creeds—Credence?—wraps his arms around himself and says something so hoarse Perce can’t understand the words. “Can she come out now?” Percival asks. “I think they’re stuck,” Creeds says, now staring at Percival’s toes. “Can I come over there and help get them out?” he asks, and Creeds nods again.

Percival walks slowly closer, more fragments of the building crackling under each step, though the floor itself seems remarkably stable here. He uses some wandless magic to prevent more debris falling down around either side of the table when he pulls it away. Two girls look up out of a tiny safe space between the table and the wall, salted with plaster dust but otherwise completely unharmed. This is why the obscurus had been keeping to that corner. 

The younger girl’s face is streaked with tears. She immediately squirms past Percival and runs to Creeds, practically tackling him, sobbing with her face buried in his dusty t-shirt. The older sister, an omega, comes out more slowly, shaking. Percival sees her register his police uniform, the illusion over the auror uniform, and she visibly relaxes, though not completely. She accepts Percival’s offered hand for balance and then she, too, picks her way over and hugs her brother. 

Creeds wraps his arms around both girls and stares around the room. His eyes never stay in one place too long and he still looks a bit more translucent than is natural. “Thank you,” he says to Percival, though he’s still looking at him as though he half expects Percival to attack him. He looks like if anyone did try to hurt his sisters, he’d be terrified, but ready to do some damage to protect them. “You’re going to be okay now,” Percival says. “We’re going to help you. All of you.”

For his part, Creeds feels worse than he’s ever felt in his life. He’s hyperaware of every person in the building, especially the wixen in what used to be the hall, each of them smelling and tasting illogically like beings of flame. None of his senses work right, his head and stomach hurt, and he feels like he could fly apart again at any moment. The monster from his nightmares is real, it’s come out of him and killed his mother. (His mother is dead, Mary Lou, he killed her, he killed his mother—) He can’t tell which feelings are physical and which are emotional, but they’re all terrible except for a tiny bright point of relief. His sisters are alive, and Mary Lou will never hurt them again.

The auror says he wants to help them, and Creeds isn’t sure what to believe anymore, but he desperately wants not to be in charge. “All of us?” he asks, his voice croaking unpleasantly. “All three of you,” says Percy. Creeds has killed his mother and just might be a monster, but having his sisters safe is nearly everything he’s ever wanted. The last whisper of the nightmare monster shivers and fades back into his skin, and Creeds begins to cry.

Creeds can barely remember anything else that happens that day. The aurors perform a ridiculous amount of magic fixing up the apartment building to something more recognizable as a terrible utilities accident. Creeds is too busy clinging to Modesty and crying to appreciate this at all at the time. The wix equivalent of medical first responders wrap him and his sisters in blankets and offer them incredibly good hot chocolate, which once again Creeds is too upset to enjoy properly, but it does make him feel a little better.

The aurors’ mind-boggling interpretation of Creeds’s nightmare coming to life is to declare him a misidentified wizard, as though he’s someone like Remus and otherwise perfectly normal, with some minor inconvenience disrupting his regular magical school attendance. There’s something about amnesty and state lawyers and payment for damages, but all Creeds really understands is that they’re not going to punish him for killing Mary Lou, somehow, and he and Chastity get to keep Modesty. 

They get to keep Modesty, and he’s apparently dangerous but not in trouble. He’s still sweaty and disgusting and covered in dust and scrapes, and he can’t seem to stop sobbing even after he has no tears left to cry, but his sisters are safe, and they get to keep Modesty away from Mary Lou for ever and ever. When he revisits this later, after sleeping for nearly twelve hours in a wizard hospital, it doesn’t become any less shocking, just slightly more real.

Creeds recognizes one of the alpha female aurors as someone who occasionally does rounds in inconvenient places, the kind that force Creeds to take detours so he doesn’t have to pretend not to see her standing there, invisible. This auror turns out to be called Tina Goldstein. Her being alpha makes him nervous, but she’s painfully honest and he can’t disbelieve that she, too, wants to help them. He can tell Chastity feels easier around women than men, presentation notwithstanding, which makes another point in Tina’s favor. 

Deep down, Creeds really wishes he was being fussed over by a posse of Hallower werewolves under the watchful eye of Gellert Grindelwald. He’s used to not getting what he wants, though. His sisters being safe makes a fine enough fantasy to receive, even if it pitches him headfirst into the terrifyingly unfamiliar law-abiding segment of the wix community. There’s definitely some Hallower magic to prevent him explaining most of what he already knows about wixen, so he hopes they won’t make him try.

Tina’s auror co-workers set up the three Barebones in what Tina calls a halfway house. It's part of a small apartment block, not an actual house, and it's one of the nicer places the Barebones have ever stayed. They’ll be allowed to move somewhere else if they want, but MACUSA will pay the rent for a few months until they get on their feet. He and Chastity get custody of Modesty through some kind of paperwork sorcery, possibly literally. The business with the exploding apartment had been a fiasco, but not the same kind Creeds expected it to be. According to Tina, who gets to explain everything to Creeds, MACUSA officials view this as mostly their fault, since Creeds is an untrained wizard they should have identified and put in school years ago. 

The apartment is inhabited entirely by magical and mixed magical families. A few neighbors have already introduced themselves, so when the doorbell rings Creeds goes to answer it, assuming it’ll be more of the like. On the other hand, Creeds has seen enough new things in this place he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a live dragon through the peephole. It’s not a dragon or neighbors, unless his neighbors are uniformed aurors. One of them is Tina, so he opens the door.

“We just wanted to check up on you guys, make sure everything is going all right with the new apartment,” Tina says, smiling like a hopeful puppy and gesturing with the dish in her hands. “Moving can be kind of overwhelming even if you planned for it so we thought you might like some extra food, to keep up with dinners.” Tina’s definitely the most non-threatening alpha Creeds has ever met.

He recognizes the handsome beta as the auror with the gentle voice, who’d spoken to him in that nightmare of a few days ago. Percy, Creeds thinks. He hadn’t really noticed what the beta looked like at the time. Percy is stockier and at least two or three inches shorter than Creeds, and he has an easygoing demeanor, somehow not at odds with his confident posture. He’s carrying a rather large box with a fancy label on top. 

Creeds has still not adjusted to how much stronger everyone smells since he’s presented, and he gets the distinct impression that while Tina is the alpha, this beta is definitely the one in charge. Tina notices him looking. “Oh, sorry! Credence, this is Percival Graves. You kind of met him a few days ago.”

“I remember,” Creeds agrees quietly, inspecting him. “Perce or Percy is fine,” Percival Graves says. Creeds isn’t an expert at reading scents yet. Still, Percival’s beta and orange scent seems reasonably nonthreatening, and he had calm words for Creeds and his monster on that nightmare day. Creeds is cautious out of habit, but his family owes these aurors for their shelter and their freedom, so he’ll at least give them a chance to be nice. 

“Credence?” comes Chastity’s worried voice from the kitchen.  
“It’s fine,” he calls back. “It’s just the wizard cops.”

“Witches!” Modesty yells, and comes racing down the hall for a look. Chastity is saying something disapproving and inaudible in the kitchen and Modesty ignores her. Creeds catches her before she can run into his legs. She clings to his arm eagerly, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

“Hi!” she says brightly up at Tina and Percival. “Why are you here?”  
“Hi,” says Tina. “Modesty, right? We brought you guys food, since you just got here.”  
“Cool, what is it?”

Tina gestures with the baking dish she’s been carrying. “My sister is the better cook, so she made you guys a casserole.” She looks over at Percival and his box. “Did you bring Kowalski’s?” she asks him incredulously, and laughs when he shrugs. “They’re pastries. Kowalski’s is a bakery,” Percival explains.

“I wanna see!” Modesty announces. She’s been unusually energetic these past few days, demanding and bordering on rude, and Creeds can’t find it in himself to be upset with her. Percival just smiles and holds the box down for her to get a look. Creeds has met magicians before, but thinks he could get used to being around ones like Tina and Percival. 

Modesty lifts the lid of the box. She gasps dramatically, a reaction with which Creeds quite frankly agrees. The box is crammed full of pastries. Most of the them are breakfast food, a few unapologetic desserts, and all extremely fancy. There are fluffy pastries in the shape of lions and bears and dragons, each curled around a dollop of fruit jelly. There are braided medallions of thick golden bread stuffed with sausage. There are round chocolate cookies made to look like sleeping tigers by means of detailed designs in powdered sugar.

“Kowalski's is half the reason I eat breakfast,” Percival says, shrugging and offering them a hopeful smile. His smile widens when Creeds stammers a thank you. “You bought all this for us?” Modesty says loudly and Creeds tries to shush her, embarrassed. “All for you,” Percival confirms. “I like him,” Modesty declares, grabbing one of the tiger cookies. 

Chastity sweeps up the hallway just then. She adds a longer, more formal thank you onto her brother's, lifts the box out of Modesty's reach with a scolding frown, and invites the officers inside to stay for dinner. “Aurors,” Creeds corrects. Tina looks at him fleetingly. 

All of the food is delicious, and it’s surprisingly not completely awkward to have the two aurors in the tiny, barely-furnished kitchen. It turns out Tina and her sister live in the same building two floors up. Tina writes down her apartment number and her and her sister’s cell phone numbers, and says to call if they ever need anything. Chastity is still nervous about the idea of magic, but bravely asks the aurors questions about their jobs and the magical parts of the city. Creeds is very quiet during the meal but smiles a few times, mostly at things Modesty says.

“I wanna be a witch too,” Modesty declares at the end of the meal, after Percival sends the dishes to wash themselves in the sink. The simplicity of the spell had the three Barebones staring, but Mod’s words snap Chastity back to her usual formality. “Modesty!” she scolds, though Creeds doesn’t think either auror is at all offended. Modesty shrugs. “What? They’re witches aren’t they, or magicians or whatever. And Creeds is a witch too now, remember?”

“Wizard,” Creeds corrects before either Tina or Percival can say anything. “Are you really though?” Mod says, folding her arms and inspecting him with a scrunched nose. “You're an alpha, but you do magic, and you're gay.” 

“Modesty,” Chastity protests again, looking horrified, and Modesty talks over her: “Can a guy be a witch ‘cause he's gay?” Chastity and Modesty exchange death glares. Creeds exerts visible effort to not slump and avoid everyone’s gaze. “Credence would still be considered a wizard,” Percival says, eyebrows raised slightly. “Witches are women, and magic doesn’t care if you’re gay. A more gender neutral term would be wix.”

“You should let him decide to tell people that, Modesty,” Tina says gently, but Creeds shrugs and sits up straighter. He notices his own scent acquiring a faint mix of smoke and sage, a tang that probably goes with defiance. "She doesn't need my permission," he says, arms folded loosely, a stubborn set to his jaw. "I'm not ashamed. She can tell anybody she wants. So I'm a gay wizard. I'm not ashamed."

“Well, you're in good company,” Percival says. “There’s a lot less stigma toward gender and sexual minorities in the magical world, though it has problems of its own. I'm not sure all of us even have set genders, in the physical sense.” Tina gives him a questioning look and he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Oh,” she says with a half grin. “The shapeshifters.” 

“Shapeshifters?” Modesty repeats curiously. “A number of magical crimes we deal with in the Chicago area have to do with shapeshifters, people who have learned to change their appearance,” Tina explains. “Makes it very hard to catch anyone or prove they did something, because they go around with someone else’s face. It's even more complicated when they turn into animals.”

“I thought there was a different word for that?” Creeds asks. “Sure, animaguses,” Tina agrees. This was the word Creeds was expecting, and Tina continues: “But they aren't quite the same thing.”  
“Have you heard of animagi before?” Percival asks. Creeds avoids his gaze. “I might have.”

“Anyone can become an animagus with practice, but you can’t just learn to be a shapeshifter. It's more complicated than that. You have to make a deal with the original shapeshifter. I blame the Hallowers for most of them here. Nobody can pin anything on Grindelwald, of course.”

“The Hallowers, the criminal gang?” Chastity says. “They’ve been in the news. They burn buildings.” Tina nods and replies, “That’s the least of what they do. They don't cause much trouble for normal people, though, so don't worry about them. They'll leave you alone if you stay out of their way.”

The conversation moves on but in the back of his mind, Creeds remembers Grindelwald, with his clever mismatched eyes that never seemed to be the same colors. The smuggling drop-off supervisor, Lestrange, punished a shop girl for referring to Grindelwald as mister. Just Grindelwald, no honorific; not sir, not mister. And he remembered the way Grindelwald could vanish out of an empty room, unlike the other magicians, without the slightest sound. 

Percival and Tina’s visit turns out to be the standard sort of guilelessly friendly behavior common to the Chicago auror office. Creeds ends up accidentally agreeing to let Tina take him with her to work to finalize some legal papers, and to ‘introduce him to one or two people.’ That apparently means most of the state’s auror department. Creeds is pretty sure normal police aren’t all members of SWAT teams, but Tina seems like she’s worked with almost everybody. Tina looks on as an energetic beta secretary called Potter walks him through a small mountain of paperwork. She interrupts them periodically to introduce other aurors, secretaries, curse breakers, and ward builders, all of whom seem to want to welcome Creeds to the magical side of the world, or something of that sort.

He meets Tina’s sister, Queenie, a very pretty omega in records and analysis. Her job involves gathering information on cases and distributing lots of coffee. She’s a bit like an older, girlier version of his sister Modesty, and Creeds likes her immediately. She’s a legilimens, which means she can read minds. That could be creepy, but instead she uses it for things like getting Creeds into an involved conversation about body art and tattoos.

Queenie used to be a waitress, but apparently once Percival found out about her he hired her almost at once. She acts flighty but probably knows more than anyone else. She refuses to participate directly in interrogation but sometimes gives the lead investigators informal and extremely useful tips. The Chicago aurors are have stayed remarkably clean of corruption recently, in part thanks to her help. The rest of the thanks belongs to Percival, a fact which Creeds files away for later. Tina keeps getting in complicated scrapes, and Percival Graves jokingly threatens to replace her with her sister all the time. This would obviously never happen, because Tina is dedicated to her job, herself a SWAT captain and one of Percival’s favorites. 

Queenie is engaged to cute muggle baker, one Jacob Kowalski, the owner of Kowalski’s Bakery, the source of the wonderful pastries Percival brought for Creeds and his sisters. The Chicago aurors could likely keep Kowalski’s in business singlehandedly, based on the sheer number of pastry boxes Creeds sees around the offices. Queenie helps Creeds get a job at the bakery almost within a week of the obscurus incident. Jacob knows all about the magical world, chortling delightedly at everything he doesn’t know and taking all bizarre happenings in stride. He is an excellent boss. Creeds can hardly believe his luck.

Queenie and James Potter, the enthusiastic secretary, help Creeds sign up for spring semester classes at the magical equivalent of community college. The Chicago Witchcraft and Sorcery Institute is known as CWSI, which for some reason is pronounced ‘Susie.’ CWSI is an offshoot of a huge local public school, the even more peculiarly named Hogwarts. James Potter has a dozen opinions about Hogwarts and its teachers, and he and Queenie get into spirited arguments about whether Queenie and Tina’s school, Ilvermorny, is better. Creeds has still barely processed the idea that he’s a wizard now, let alone that he gets to go to wizard community college, but he’s learned to always land on his feet, and this is a good kind of bizarre change, and he’s not going to let the novelty of it slow him down too much.

Creeds and Chastity arrange their work schedules so one of them can always ride to school and back with Modesty. The bakery mostly needs him in the morning. On the afternoons he’s not needed and Mod can stay after school, he tags along with Tina. She’s pleased to bring him along to the auror offices. He enjoys watching the constant rush of people when she’s out on duty and doing homework in a corner by her desk. Most of the aurors are alphas.

Creeds pays extra attention to Percival Graves. Percival, or Perce, turns out to be not only a wizard SWAT team leader, but also one of the top dogs in Chicago’s magical politics. He’s one of the city’s youngest-ever auror superintendents, a formidable duelist, and even though he’s beta, the aurors practically fawn at his feet, alphas included. He reminds Creeds of Grindelwald, in that last respect. 

Percival always takes a few minutes to say hello to Creeds, and chases off any of the aurors who get the annoying urge to correct Creeds’s beginner charms technique. Percival says he’d be glad to help if Creeds needs anything, meaning both Creeds’s homework and a more general ‘anything.’ Creeds thanks him politely and hopes it’s not too obvious his stomach flips over every time Percival smiles at him. 

It’s obvious a lot of the other aurors have similar crushes on their boss, and Creeds quietly allows himself to listen in on the informal fan club. Creeds has never had a boyfriend and figures the fashionable head wizard cop is way out of his league, besides being years older. _He’s younger than Grindelwald,_ a traitorous part of Creeds’s mind says, which Creeds does his best to shut up. Percival is thirteen years older than Creeds, thirteen years almost exactly, a detail Creeds learns from the magazines Tina confiscates from her subordinates. 

Percival’s auror fan club has a roaring trade in political and style magazines that mention him. Tina scolds the junior aurors periodically for their unprofessionalism. Creeds sneaks looks through the magazines when he thinks nobody is watching. 

His favorites are the ten year old issues of _Quintessential Queer Wix._ They are fascinating on their own and include a lot of photoshoots with twentysomething Percival, who was apparently something of a local fashion phenomenon. Most of the photos have him looking unfairly attractive in hideous bright plaids, occasionally wearing eyeliner and earrings, always tousle-haired and smoldering. In spite of all this, Percival managed to make it through auror training with a thoroughly respectable reputation. 

The lounging creature in the photographs seems a world away from the casually commanding auror who sweeps through MACUSA dressed as impeccably as a lawyer. He seems to have no idea how beguiling he looks, or else has deliberately forgotten it. He does still occasionally wear earrings and eyeliner.

Queenie knows everything, of course, and sneaks Creeds a copy of a more recent magazine with a feature article on Percival. ITQ is a pretentious looking publication. The article is mostly about Percival’s job and his part in clearing the Chicago aurors of corruption. The political commentary is interesting, and complicated enough it makes Creeds feel a little less guilty for enjoying the high contrast photos of Percival in crisp monochromatic suits, staring intensely out of the pages. 

By March, Creeds has mastered the spell for folding laundry, and his charms class has them doing practical problem solving based on origami. He struggles to re-fold discarded memos into simple animals at Tina’s desk. He keeps one eye out for when Percival transfigures his clothes, for educational purposes of course. The aurors work the streets in uniforms that have varying degrees of similarity to those of the nonmagical Chicago PD. Tina shows up to work in the auror standard version, which includes heavy military style boots, fatigues, and an anti-jinx jacket with the MACUSA eagle on the back. 

Percival on the other hand shows up every day in a three piece suit and tie, which he has to transfigure into a uniform every time a big call comes in. At a mere gesture, the cloth ripples and folds like a speeded up video of a blooming flower, whirling from suit to police uniform in mere seconds. He doesn’t even bother to wait for the spell to finish. He lets his clothes transfigure around him as he walks, shouting instructions and summoning aurors in line behind him. 

At work, Creeds learns how to bake bread, and how to braid loaves, and memorizes the display case layout so he can package orders without needing to check the labels. Jacob is as unendingly positive as Queenie, and pays well enough that Creeds can not only pick up the rent but even starts to save some money. 

At school, he learns hover charms and basic transfiguration theory, and dozens of small household spells that mean he and Chastity get extra time to sleep. His being able to wash and dry the dishes by magic singlehandedly convinces her that his strange classes are a good idea. Mod is so interested in his homework he has to constantly remind her to finish her own. 

It’ll be a long time before they truly recover from Mary Lou, if ever, but for the first time in his life, Creeds thinks they’ll really be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much happier ending than for the last chapter!
> 
> Percival Graves in earrings and eyeliner, am I right? I don’t care about fashion at all but I would read something called the Quintessential Queer Wix. ITQ stands for Imperious Thaumaturges Quarterly and it’s the magical world’s approximate equivalent of GQ, you're welcome. That silliness is courtesy of myself and my excellent beta reader.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six warnings: technically self harm when someone uses a very small amount of their own blood to perform a spell. also mild ~suggestive imagery, lol.

________________________________________________________________________

By the end of spring, Creeds has become close enough friends with Tina and Andromeda and some younger auror recruits to earn an invitation to the loft. That’s what they call it: the loft. The loft is a townhouse near the edge of Lincoln Park which the aurors use as an extra workspace. It’s only two stories and unreasonably wide for a townhouse, either cobbled together from three older houses or enchanted to look like that.

The inside looks nothing like the outside, true to the pattern Creeds has come to expect of magical buildings. It has many large windows across the street-facing side, and an entirely concrete back wall on the alley side. “We mostly hang out and make plans in there. Practice big stuff, too, though. It’s under a Fidelius so only certain people can tell anyone where it is,” Tina says. Creeds raises his eyebrows and simply looks around, wondering how much of an understatement her casual tone might be. 

It looks like a wizard armory more than spare office space. Rows of equipment lockers line one of the narrow walls. Permanent runes and pentagrams adorn much of the cement underfoot. Whatever protective magic has been built into the place buzzes over his skin when he steps through the front door. 

The first few times at the loft, Tina and her friends do seem to be mostly ‘hanging out,’ consuming endless coffee and pastries and doing tiny elaborate spells on the tables instead of paperwork. On the other hand, he sees a team of aurors walk through and put away about a dozen huge guns in the equipment lockers. One of the lockers also contains a stack of old books, next to the guns. Creeds knows effectively nothing about magic books except that they exist. Contraband smugglers like himself were absolutely forbidden to bring any book of any kind into the Hallower’s storage warehouses. The loft has some of the same quivering feel in the air as CWSI and more formidable Hogwarts school libraries. If he weren’t already careful with his textbooks, these observations would make him be even more so.

At first he stays glued to Tina in the loft, but the aurors are relaxed there, and something about the space makes it easier to talk to people. He gets to know all of Tina’s team and several others by sight if not by name. Among them are at least three different guys named Nguyen, Jamie Abernathy, and several women with names nearly as strange as Creeds’s own, including Deliverance Ruben and Andromeda Tonks.

Andromeda is one of the youngest aurors Creeds has met so far, unusually stocky and soft-spoken for an alpha. Creeds had done an embarrassing double take the first time he'd met her, because she looks exactly like a slightly older version of creepy Mrs. Lestrange. Mrs. Lestrange, who was always called “creepy” by the storeroom wranglers, insisted on being called “Missus” even though she looked younger than Creeds. Creepy Mrs. Lestrange looked like the kind of devil worshipper Creeds’s mother would have imagined at the term "witch," like she might sacrifice puppies and dance naked in their blood under a full moon. Andromeda on the other hand turns out to be married to a muggle omega, is good at baking cookies, and is absolutely nothing like creepy Mrs. Lestrange. 

He doesn’t get a real taste for the loft’s usefulness until the incident with the dragons. He has an odd open space in his work schedule one morning, and drops by the loft after texting Tina. The loft wards recognize him, as Tina had gotten him permission in the first place, so he walks in and sees the dragons before he sees her. Specifically, he sees about ten electric blue dragons the size of puppies inside a pentagram with Newt Scamander. 

Newt Scamander is a dragon specialist employed by the aurors’ wildlife trafficking division. He’s a gangling redhead with a hopeful smile, one of the tallest omegas Creeds has ever seen. He’s been anxiously participating in MACUSA’s ongoing efforts to stop dragon trafficking through the city. That apparently has resulted in whatever he’s doing now. 

Newt and a few other wixen from the trafficking division are arranged with crates and notebooks on one side of the loft floor inside a huge glowing pentagram, at least twenty feet across, with smaller pentagrams inside it. Newt’s the only one inside a smaller pentagram with the dragons. He’s wearing a peculiar suit of black leather complete with thick black gloves. He’s either trying to catch one of the vibrant dragons or is playing with them. It’s hard to tell. Creeds drops his backpack on an unoccupied work table and makes his way over cautiously, careful not to step over the edge of the pentagram.

One of the dragons scrambles up Newt’s back and launches itself into the air, smacking claws first into the invisible barrier made by the inner pentagram. It tumbles into Newt’s hands and leaps away immediately, squeaking excitedly. More of them trip over his boots and try to take the first one’s place climbing Newt’s jacket. Newt’s excitement smells like lemon sugar.

“Hello Creeds, look at these!” Newt calls over the squeaking and tussling.  
“Hello Newt.”

“Come on over, get a look! Juvenile Sri Lankan Tourmalets,” Newt answers enthusiastically, hoisting one up for Creeds to see. It squirms around and tries to escape, flaring its wings clumsily. “Seized a whole shipment of them! They’re not terribly dangerous but they are rather good at setting fire to things that normally don’t burn. Mr. Graves agreed to let us keep them here, fortunately, although his living room would have been the ideal choice.”

“Mr. Graves’s living room?” Creeds repeats, thinking he’s heard incorrectly. “Oh yes,” Newt says, letting the dragon fling itself out of his hands. “The power for the containment would be slightly more stable upstairs, but not everyone wants a brood of Tourmalets in their house I suppose.” Tina walks up at that moment. “Hey Newt, hey Creeds. What are we talking about?”

“Newt’s dragons,” Creeds says, “and, uh, Mr. Graves’s living room?” Tina grins at Newt. “Said no, did he?” Newt huffs. “I did try explaining, but—

“—no work in the loft upstairs, at all, ever,” Tina recites, sitting down on one of the scattered empty dragon crates. Creeds has never been in the loft upstairs, or seen anyone go up there. One can see that there must be an upstairs, presumably reachable by two sets of staircases on either end of the first floor. He can’t figure out what that has to do with putting dragons in the auror superintendent’s apartment. Tina notices his confusion because she says, “Percival’s living room is in the middle of the loft upstairs. I think it is, anyway. It’s definitely the central point of the vertex.” Creeds looks at her blankly.

“Goldstein,” laughs one of Newt’s assistants, “did you get a friend permission to come in here and not tell him what the permission is for?” 

It turns out that Percival is one of the few wixen in the city with enough resident magic that his home is a meridian vertex. That means enough magic residually accumulates there to make it possible to anchor other spells there. That’s how Newt explains it, meaning that somehow the loft building itself gains more magic just because it’s Percival’s house. It’s probably more complicated than that, but Creeds gathers that the house helps power the big pentagrams and keep the baby dragons contained. The dragons look cute, at least by Newt’s standards, but harbor potent magic of their own, and could not be safely contained and concealed in just any magical space.

More to the point, the loft doesn’t belong to the auror department after all. Creeds has been spending odd afternoons in Percival’s house for a month without even knowing it. Also on the point, Creeds gathers that Percival Graves must be an incredibly powerful magician. He can’t understand most of what he’s read in the CWSI-Hogwarts library about magical vertices and local ley lines, except that meridian vertices are useful starting points for doing really big magic on top of other really big magic.

All this is to say that Percival Graves walks downstairs half out of his work clothes, because that’s something one does in their own home even when it’s full of aurors, and Creeds was not prepared to behave normally in close proximity with Percival in a tank top. “Tina, has anyone reset the sealing on the stacks this week?” Percival says. Tina stands up quickly, always eager to please. “Not that I’ve heard, I can do it,” she says, already striding briskly toward the storage section of the loft. Percival nods after her. “Great. Thanks, Tina. Hi Creeds.” 

“Uh, hi Mr. Graves,” Creeds says, mentally smacking himself for gaping like a dying fish. Everyone else either doesn’t notice or has the grace not to say anything. “Oh god, please don’t call me mister,” Percival laughs with a small cringe. “It makes me sound old! Perce is fine.” Creeds blinks at the warm smile Percival gives him and thankfully doesn’t have time to stammer a response before Percival looks over Creeds’s shoulder and frowns. “Newt, what are you doing to my floor?”

“It’ll clean up just fine, not to worry,” Newt says briskly. “Minor transportation mishap, but everything is under control.” Percival asks some other question about the dragons, so Newt launches off into a passionate explanation. Creeds uses this as a chance to rearrange his thoughts. So, this loft belongs to Percival. Ridiculously attractive, friendly, apparently very powerful, Perce-is-fine Percival. 

Creeds miraculously does calm himself down enough to act like a normal person, and he hopes he does so with a minimum number of people aware of the drama playing out in his head. He’s seen plenty of people in the auror standard tank top before, but not Percival, until today. Percival has very nice arms. And shoulders. Creeds is grateful that wixen don’t object to homosexuality and at the same time really, really doesn’t want to be caught staring. He forces himself to listen to the end of Newt’s rant about dark magic and people who smuggle dragons for their body parts. Percival sits down on a crate near Andromeda and one of the Nguyens (Andy, maybe?), listening attentively.

“Absolutely barbaric,” Newt concludes passionately, pushing his bangs out of his eyes only somewhat effectively, smudging soot across his forehead in the process. “I appreciate your point,” Percival says. “I’m glad we have you to help with the little guys. To be completely fair, though, we can’t say everyone’s a crazy dark wix for using creature parts in potions. We’d have to arrest half the city.” Newt’s mouth tightens and he looks like he might have some additional strong opinions about that, but they’re prevented from hearing them because one of Newt’s team asks him for help checking one of the smaller dragons’ teeth.

“Perce?” Creeds asks into the pause, and takes a deep breath when Percival’s friendly gaze turns back to him. “About dark wixen. What is dark magic, exactly?” He has some idea what dark magic is, from the Hallowers’ warehouses, but he wouldn’t want to explain that to a room full of aurors, even if he could. Instead, he hurries to explain, “They talk about it at CWSI, but the teachers are always vague.” 

Percival leans back on his hands and raises his eyebrows. “Do you want the short answer or the long answer?” Creeds hesitates, and suggests, “The long answer?” Percival nods acknowledgement and frowns thoughtfully. 

“Dark magic isn’t actually one sort of magic. There’s not one definition. Usually people say ‘dark wizard’ like they say ‘terrorist.’ They’re being vague about people that scare them, or magic that scares them. A lot of civilians use it as a generic label for any magic they don’t like.”

Percival pauses to gather his thoughts, still frowning thoughtfully at Creeds’s attentive expression. “You sure you want the long answer? Magic lore is a mess.” Creeds nods once. He’s not entirely sure what it means, but magic lore sounds wonderfully interesting, especially if Percival explains it. “Percival’s a dark curse specialist,” Andromeda interjects conspiratorially at normal conversation volume. “Long answer might be like a class lecture, Creeds,” she says, and Percival rolls his eyes. 

“Better let him get started, then,” Creeds replies, just a little bit snarky, and Andromeda hoots with startled amusement. Encouraged, Creeds turns firmly back to Percival. “So what does ‘dark magic’ really mean, then?”

Percival doesn’t quite look delighted, but he certainly looks pleased and amused at Creeds’s interjection. “What it means depends on who you’re talking to,” he says. “Some people say it’s any magic that can hurt people. Of course, that makes basically everyone a dark wix by age ten, because,” Percival waves his hand vaguely, “who hasn’t accidentally set things on fire, or broken a lot of plates with accidental magic because they were mad at their cousin, or something?”

“That sounds like a really specific example,” Andromeda says with a grin, and Percival shrugs innocently. “Might be. Anyway, most magic can be dangerous if done incorrectly. All the aurors ever trained have learned how to perform spells intended to do harm, and a lot of us have used them on other people as part of our job. Does that make us dark? Maybe.” He gestures expansively at the room around them, the weapons lockers and sparring circles. “It’s a lot darker being a policeman or auror than your job with Kowalski’s, that’s for sure.”

Creeds blinks and feels a small smile spreading over his face. “You remember I work at Kowalski’s,” he says quietly, and Percival raises his eyebrows with a small smile of his own. “Yeah, you told me,” he says, which is absolutely true, but it’d been weeks ago and Creeds has barely mentioned it since in the few conversations they’ve had. That Percival remembered strikes a warm glow in Creeds’s chest.

“So most people don’t think clearly about what dark magic means before they call something dark?” Creeds asks. Percival nods.

“Right, exactly. There’s a theoretical definition that I think might work better, that dark magic is anything known to involve deliberate harm to a living person in the casting. Even that is too vague, is the problem. It’s all a matter of perspective. Some cultures label each other’s magic as dark. There are some very frightening spells only used to cause pain and suffering which don’t require harming someone in the casting. They’re for harming someone, purely weapon spells, but they don’t cast all that differently from charms to heal injuries. It’s not clear which of these is properly dark or if the whole idea of ‘dark arts’ is imaginary.”

“Healing?” Creeds asks, thinking of the unpleasant potion passed out at CWSI to cure colds, and the strange tingling when Grindelwald healed welts on his palms. Grindelwald’s magic made Creeds shiver, but he doesn’t think that counts as evidence for healing being dark or not. He’d probably have shivered having his hand held like that, no matter what kind of magic it was. “Is healing ever called a dark art?”

“It ought to be, in my opinion,” Percival says, clearly appreciating the question. “This is exactly my point. It’s all a matter of perspective. Time period, too. Take divination, which by the way is almost entirely smoke and mirrors in my opinion. Plenty of divination methods involve causing harm to something, or have some other direct association with death and destruction. Heat fracturing bones, for example. Can’t remember what that’s called but you break bones by touching them with something like a fireplace poker. Knucklebone readings use bones too, lots of options there. Some of these you just use bones from something you were going to kill anyway, like the bones from a roast at dinner, but the traditions can get pretty gruesome.”

“But healing,” Creeds prompts. “Why would healing be like hurting with magic at all? Aren’t they completely different intentions?”

“Intention is absolutely important,” Percival confirms. “But a healing spell done incorrectly can cause harm, even if you intended to help. It’s like medicine, that almost any medicine taken incorrectly can be a poison.”

Creeds wants to ask about intention and the obscurus, about it hurting people, killing when he was angry but did not really intend anything but to protect. He’s seen the obscurus once or twice now, just glimpses of it seeping out of him when he’s been stressed since the incident in December. Since he murdered his mother, that is; he doesn’t like to think about the truth head on, even though he tells himself there was no way he could have known and it’s better her than Modesty. The obscurus looks like darkness, and it feels strange and frightening and dangerous, and it prevented anything from hurting his sisters, but it killed his mother and destroyed most of an apartment building. 

He wants to ask if the obscurus is dark, if he’s a dark wizard and what would mean, but the question and any possible version of an answer seem too personal to be allowed. He might be willing to ask if there weren’t people in the room, but he shies away from being so exposed to anyone, let alone with an audience in front of Percival. He likes Percival far too much to ask a question like that and maybe find out Percival thinks he’s a bad person in front of a room full of aurors. It’s not an entirely logical thought process but it’s all he has time for before the next place in the conversation to say something. Instead he asks about magic that involves hurting people. How could that ever not be a bad thing?

“That’s a good question. You know—“ Percival snaps his fingers and stands with purpose.

He walks over to one of the unoccupied work tables and slides open a drawer Creeds had not noticed. He rummages around for a bit, makes a wry face, and summons what he’s looking for with a flick of his wrist. A bright silver thing leaps out of the drawer into his hand. Tina’s expression wobbles between amused and concerned. “Why do you have a weapon in a junk drawer?” 

“It’s a letter opener,” Percival says, sitting back on the crate with the silver knife in his hand. It looks like a miniature sword, at least six inches long. “Why the hell, sir,” one of the other aurors laughs. Percival makes a tiny en garde gesture with the letter opener, pointing it and wiggling his impressive eyebrows. Creeds stifles a giggle. “I got it as a gift,” Percival says, relaxing to his normal posture. “It’s part of this fancy-ass desk set the Scamanders got me for graduation. There’s a European self-inking feather quill and everything.” 

“Scamanders like Newt?” Creeds asks. Percival nods. “Yeah, I went to training with his brother, Thes. They’re all British as hell. Back on the point…”

Percival checks the edge of the letter opener with his thumb. Satisfied, he lays the blade across his palm, and casually slices open the skin of his hand. Creeds gasps in belated shock. Blood wells up, vivid in Percival’s palm, and up, defying gravity instead of dripping onto the floor. All of a sudden, Percival’s presence snaps into focus, a blanket of citrus and ozone. The feral magic in Creeds’s body lifts its formless head, and every hair on his body stands up. This is the kind of magic he knows, the magic he recognizes from the warehouses and crates of cursed objects, the searing symbol of the Hallowers on door frames, standing in a hallway with bi-eyed Gellert Grindelwald. Creeds holds himself stock still but his blood sings.

Percival’s blood blooms into a beautiful, impossible flower, delicate layers of black petals encircling a burning red center. It buds and blooms and withers in a flameless conflagration of orange and crimson, and finally sinks back into his palm full of blood. The blood flows backward into Percival’s hand until there’s not a drop left on his skin. All the electricity fades back out of the air.

“Periculid,” Percival says matter-of-factly. “There’s a lot of these used in East Asian battlefield traditions. You sacrifice your own blood to save someone who’s dying.” He wiggles his fingers to show that his hand is completely healed. 

“That’s kind of gruesome, sir,” one of the aurors says. But Creeds has been watching this with laser focus, and looks up at Percival’s face with intense interest. He enjoys the spells at school, but they are small and tricky, both unfamiliar and ordinary. Though he’s never seen it before, he recognizes this magic as surely as he recognizes his own face in the mirror. He says to Percival: “Can you teach me how to do that?” He’s even forgotten his embarrassment in focusing on Percival’s face.

Percival blinks at him, swallows, and shakes his head, charming the small blade clean. “It’s not a beginner’s trick,” he says, unwilling to look away from Creeds’s fierce gaze. “Maybe once you’ve caught up. My point is,” Percival continues, forcibly reorganizing his thoughts with visible effort, “even magic that requires pain may not be evil. Like that periculid, it may be for potent protection.”

“It’s beautiful,” Creeds says softly, still watching Percival’s fingers where he holds the silvery letter opener, and the perfectly healed palm of his hand. “It can be, yes,” Percival replies.

Percival, meanwhile, finds himself wondering at Creeds’s avid curiosity. He’s flattered. Normally he doesn’t allow himself to be too flattered by young alphas. Creeds isn’t deliberately trying to flatter him, he’s just impressed and curious, which is probably why the flattery works so well. There’s nothing like an unusual honest compliment to get Percival’s attention. Creeds has been responsive to conversation every time Percival sees him at Tina’s desk, willing to return Percival’s greetings but usually fairly quiet. He must not be as shy as he’d appeared; Percival doesn’t know why Creeds decided to have a full length conversation with him this time, but he finds he rather likes it.

It’s not that Percival hadn’t been paying attention to Creeds, he simply hadn’t allowed himself much dedicated thought on whether Creeds is attractive, or fun to talk to. When Percival allows himself to consider Creeds as a potential equal rather than as someone from a case, he decides he would in fact like to know more about him. 

He’s used to ignoring the ambitious, high-energy alphas around him all day. Still, he had noticed Creeds in spite of himself, tall and lean, with a jaw and cheekbones that look like the clean lines of a fashion sketch come to life. Creeds’s fierce curiosity, focused on what Percival could do rather than Percival himself, had made Percival’s mouth go dry. The obscurus smells like arson, he remembers, like things on fire that should never be burned. Healthy, calmer, and curious, Creeds smells like strong black tea and a hint of campfire smoke. 

From that point on, Percival makes a point of talking to Creeds more often, and is increasingly convinced that Creeds is not actually as shy as he had initially appeared. They talk about Creeds’s classes, city politics, and graffiti art. Creeds _is_ interesting in conversation, always respectful but willing to disagree with him, much to his interest. Percival isn’t allowed to say much about cases while he’s working on them, but he will answer Creeds’s questions about how the laws work. If his glances linger on Creeds a little longer than necessary, it appears that Creeds doesn’t mind. In fact, Percival catches Creeds looking much the same way at himself. 

Percival notices continuously how well Creeds is adjusting to being magical. The things he knows and doesn’t know are strangely mismatched with what a normal magical child from mug family would know. Creeds has been seeing magic his entire life, clearly, able to see things even other young wixen might not. He sees right through auror wards, for example, which Percival learns by chance from some minor innocent question Creeds asks about their jackets. Nobody is supposed to be able to see the hex-shielding wards under concealment illusions to make them look like police uniforms, but Creeds can see through all the layers of spells without any effort, has always seen them. 

Creeds is mildly embarrassed whenever he says something that surprises Percival like this, flushes from his neck to his ears when Percival assures him it’s not a bad thing. “It’s impressive, actually. You have quite a perceptive talent, Credence,” he says, and Creeds ducks his head and says “Thanks,” with a tiny smile. Percival would think the magical world would be overwhelming, but Creeds seems to have a remarkable ability to just go with it. Percival can’t come up with much description for what he thinks about this besides that Creeds must be unspeakably brave. 

Brave, and attractive. He also has a nice laugh, and, well. Percival knows himself well enough to know noticing that detail means he’s in trouble.

________________________________________________________________________

By early summer, Creeds has gotten used to seeing Percival more often, and being able to hold together a conversation with the man. He has plenty of opportunities to practice getting comfortable around Percival. That’s either a blessing or a curse. He doesn’t quit going to the loft in his little free time, so maybe that choice provides his answer.

In spending more time at the loft, Creeds gets to watch Percival and his aurors practice. They have shooting ranges surrounded by barriers and silencing spells, and more surprising to Creeds, the magical equivalent of weapons practice. They tangle protective wards all over themselves before stepping into the sparring ring. Their spells here are vibrant and explosive, ricocheting off the translucent walls of the wards. The barrier doesn’t reduce sound at all, so Creeds can hear and almost feel the air vibrating from the force of the spells passing. The aurors cast counters and shields like their lives depend on it. Someday, Creeds supposes, they might. Percival in particular is good with fire and lightning, whipping out lances of flame that shriek and throw sparks off the wards when his sparring partners fail to avoid them. 

Tina can do something very similar with blue-white light, which explodes against the dueling ring’s outer boundary with a noise like a gong. She tries to wave it away but is obviously very flattered when Creeds compares her spellwork to Percival’s. Percival is definitely one of the most skilled individual duelists, and it shows. Creeds is fascinated to watch the raw power these people are able to summon instantly with a few unspoken syllables. They also tend to strip down to undershirts and tank tops, which Creeds appreciates for different reasons. 

“He thinks you’re cute too, honey,” Queenie whispers to him with a cheeky smile, and Creeds thanks the powers that be for his practice at keeping his expression blank. Queenie is pretty good at keeping a secret, but that doesn’t mean he wants his boss’s wife listening to his thoughts about how he’d like to lick the sweat off Percival’s collarbones and neck. He’s never tried such a thing, of course, but where Percival is concerned he’s definitely interested in trying it. He kept the ITQ magazine from February with Percival on the front, and his crush has not lessened in the slightest.

“My big tattoo is done,” Creeds says one afternoon, while Tina and her teammates sit around in tank tops, waiting their turn for the dueling floor. Creeds keeps one eye on Percival while they talk, and Percival’s quick leonine movements. “Oh, congrats, sweetie!” Queenie says. “Do you like how it turned out?” The others turn around curiously to listen. “I do like it,” Creeds says firmly. He’s determined not to be embarrassed bringing it up in front of other people, as it’s now one of the best things he owns. 

They talk about tattoos. Creeds explains he’s always wanted to get tattoos but so far only ever got a small one somewhere he could hide. He does not say that he figured his mother might literally kill him for it. He also does not say that the small one he got is a flower, tiny, on his inner thigh, somewhere his female family was extremely unlikely to see. It was a near perfect act of private defiance. It’s pretty and a tattoo and required saving money his mother didn’t know about and taking his pants off for a stranger for a pain of his choosing. 

Queenie sees it in his mind, to his mild embarrassment, and says, “Hey, I like that one too, Creeds.” “Thanks,” he says, shrugging, but pleased. He’d been lucky with the little flower, miraculously choosing a decent tattooist despite having almost no idea what to look for.

Queenie loves tattoos, which Creeds already knew. She pulls up her shirt to show him the tiny gold and pink butterfly tattoos fluttering around on her midriff. “I’d love to see your new one,” Queenie says, absently tucking up her shirt into her bra so it stays that way, leaving her stomach exposed. Tina frowns at her and is ignored. Creeds suppresses a smile. “It’s not as unusual as yours,” he says. “What is it?” she asks eagerly, because he’s been keeping it secret. His new bigger tattoo is not magic because he hasn’t decided what sort of magic options he might like, but he knows he wants this image, a piece of art on his own body, reclaiming the skin over his scars. 

“I’d love to see it,” Queenie adds coaxingly. “I’m curious about it too,” Tina agrees, folding her arms over the back of her chair. Creeds hesitates. “It’s on my back.”

“Oh!” Queenie says, looking like she’s maybe gotten a glimpse of his thoughts, and the nervous thrill at the idea of daring to be shirtless in front of other people. Tina tells him, “You don’t have to, then, not in here with all these people watching if you doesn’t want to.” 

Creeds gets the stubborn look he has where he’s about to do something he thinks someone might try to stop him from doing out of an excessive sense of propriety. “I don’t mind,” he says. “Then I’d like to see it,” Andromeda says, and Queenie nods. So, because he still has something to prove to himself, and because it’s the exact opposite of what he’s been raised to do, Creeds stands up and delicately peels off his shirt. “Ooh,” Queenie says admiringly.

The tattoo is still fresh enough that his skin is splotchy and red underneath, but the tattoo itself is beautiful. It’s a thestral, skeletal body curved in an equine bow, batlike wings curving gracefully around itself, delicately shaded with cloudlike silvery swirls. A ribbon inscribed with a quote in serif capitals twists a border around the thestral’s feet. The ink is magical, he agrees, when Queenie compliments the color. That’s the only magical thing about it, the faintly pearlescent note to the black and grey. 

They talk about thestrals for a bit while the others admire the tattoo. Creeds is telling the story of Newt introducing him to thestrals when Percival walks over. He has just switched out with one of the other SWAT members for dueling. Percival wipes sweat off his forehead and neck, his typically muted beta scent sharpened by his formidable combat magic. The heady smell and taste of ozone cuts the air around him, cheerful adrenaline overlaying his usual blend of spicy oranges. He’s not an alpha, but at some point it doesn’t matter. Everyone knows he’s in charge. He doesn’t say anything but they all pause and notice him. 

All the others sit up a little straighter. Newt tilts his head to the side a little bit, baring a bit more of his neck. Tina and Andromeda, both alphas, tuck their chins automatically. Wixen are more comfortable with acknowledging this kind of thing, Creeds has noticed, and he finds it fascinating to watch. He can’t decide if his own inclination is to stand up straight or go hide, but figures that has more to do with Percival himself than with hormones. Percival is authoritative, but not scary. Creeds knows scary, and Percival seems like a good guy. He’s not just attractive, he’s…nice. Creeds doesn’t want to have his bare back to Percival, but it’s definitely not fear making his insides feel warm and squirmy.

“Sorry,” Percival says, pouring himself a glass of water and looking curiously at Creeds. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. New ink?”

“Yeah,” Creeds says, looking over his shoulder at Percival. He hopes he looks and sounds casual. It’s rather difficult when Percival is obviously checking out his tattoo: that is, staring at his naked back. 

“Looks a bit like Trelawney’s work,” Percival says.  
“It is. She’s a bit weird but I was told she’s one of the best.”  
Percival reads the quote aloud thoughtfully. “‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’“  
“It’s a Bible quote,” Creeds says. “Christian Bible.”

“From First Corinthians, isn’t it?” Percival says. Creeds turns all the way around to look at him. Percival’s eyebrows quirk upward just a tad. He glances down at Creeds’s midriff like it hadn’t occurred to him Creeds’s front would be shirtless too. Creeds hopes he isn’t visibly blushing. If he is blushing and anyone comments on it, he might actually die right there on Percival’s floor. _Stay on topic,_ Creeds tells himself firmly, making sure he meets Percival’s gaze. _Act normal._ He says, “Yeah, it is. Chapter fifteen. Are you Christian?”

“Not exactly. Had some bad experiences,” Percival replies, and certainly Creeds can identify with that. Percival continues: “But I do hope there’s something out there that has a better idea what’s going on than all of us idiots. And I never discount words of power that old, as a magician. Some of them are bound to be at least partially true if they’ve had meaning for people this long. Are you Christian?” Percival takes a sip of water and Creeds could swear his eyes flick up and down again. Creeds scrunches the t-shirt in his hand. Percival has nice eyes. 

“No,” Creeds says. “My mother used everything she could find out of that religion and beat us over the head with it. But I like some of the words. It says being generous pays off better than being greedy, and that evil people get what they deserve.”

“We can’t label everyone in neat categories of good and evil,” Percival says.  
“You’re right. We shouldn’t,” Creeds agrees. “That’s what gives people like her the edge.” He looks down at the floor and back up. “I want to label her like that but I’m working on not doing that.”  
“That’s very mature of you,” says Percival. “Not a lot of people try to forgive people who hurt them that badly.”  
“I’m not trying to forgive her. She didn’t apologize. I’m just trying not to hate her.”  
“Why?” Andromeda asks. Creeds had almost forgotten the others were still there watching this conversation. “Why are you trying not to hate her? I think I’d just go with it.” 

Creeds considers the question. “If I don’t hate her, she can’t control me anymore. I don’t want to do things just because it would make her mad. I want to do things that I want to do.” He looks back at Percival, who is still watching him with a very open look that makes Creeds want to blush again, or sprint for five miles, or do something else weird like accidentally conjure a handful of lighted firecrackers.

“…I’m talking a lot. I’m going to shut up now.” He pulls his shirt back on over his head and sits down, turning his eyes firmly back to the current practice duel. He refuses to look, but he can’t shake the feeling that Percival’s eyes stay on him, watching him curiously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Newt (2) baby dragons (3) Newt with baby dragons (4) I think Newt Scamander might be chaotic good because he’s definitely not lawful good and yet I’ve placed him working for the government, because I like to make Percival’s life difficult I guess?
> 
> Not the greatest chapter cutoff point but eh. Meanwhile, Percy and Creeds are both spending time thinking about each other like Oh no he’s hot. This fic is about 80% cute gradence and I am so ready you guys.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than last time to avoid emotional whiplash, because this chapter is completely different. PSA this is still a fic with gangsters in it, and gangsters are sketchy.
> 
> Chapter seven warnings: mentions of prostitution, graphic depictions of violence, death of a minor character.

________________________________________________________________________

Looks can be deceiving. The Amulet club is a vertex of the city’s illegal trade in dark artifacts, but even to the authorities, it’s known mostly for its public image. Here the magical rich of Chicago come for decadence and the last century’s sinful music. They come for a few other things, too.

This is one of those jazz clubs every movie makes you dream about. All the decorations are crystal and creamy silk. Gilding shines on intricately latticed archways and friezes and the heads of gravity-defying columns, columns constructed only half of the physical world so they appear to hang from the ceiling rather than supporting it, like manmade stalactites. Designer clothes and diamonds glow wherever you turn your eye. Magical fire dances in slow intricate patterns on the inside of enchanted globes.

A live band plays on the dais in the center of the dance floor, improvising references to Armstrong and Brubeck and Piazzola. Dancers swirl around the band in a riot of color. The floor ripples beneath their feet like moonlit water. The Amulet’s patrons are all so rich they follow the law largely as a matter of convenience. Here you can order drinks garnished with flakes of pure gold and powdered unicorn horn, and less legal ingredients, if you have the money and know who to ask. 

Tonight is a special party, for the friends of one such patron. Guards shapeshifted into dobermans sit silent at every doorway. No extra wards have been added, because the club’s security already glistens as thick as spiderwebs. Tonight has not been overtly declared a Hallowers’ night, but that is exactly what it is. 

Gellert Grindelwald himself has been mingling with business partners and his officers all evening. By now it’s after midnight and he’s finally escaped the rush for a few moments by sprawling on a sofa in an alcove. One of the massive dobermans sits in the shadows at his elbow. He wears an impeccable suit, clad entirely in black, black coat over black waistcoat, monochromatic but for a royal blue dress shirt, a shock of color unbuttoned at his pale throat. The club’s low golden lights give everyone else a rosy glow, but Gellert’s hair looks entirely white. His eyes are as pale as if he were a spirit of ice. He has a snifter of bronze-colored brandy cupped in one hand, and a slender omega held close with the other hand.

The other omega is a young male, almost certainly a call boy, strikingly petite next to Gellert’s height and solidity. The young man is a brilliant flame of color next to Gellert, glittering in a beaded dress and eye makeup and matching heels, lipstick the exact same shade as his hair, an improbably bright red. He’s draped next to Gellert looking and smelling like omega candy. Gellert rather smells like omega candy himself, but he looks more like the kind of candy that has a razor blade hidden inside.

One of the other alphas drifts off the dance floor and greets Gellert with a polite bow. She asks if Gellert will be keeping Cherry for the evening. The younger omega leans his elegant head on Gellert’s shoulder. “Yes, I will be keeping him,” Gellert replies with a lazily threatening smile. The alpha bows and backs away.

Once there’s nobody else in hearing range, Gellert brushes a hand over the smaller omega’s shoulder. “And how are you this evening, Cherry?” he says in an undertone. Cherry turns his head elegantly, leaning into Gellert’s side. “Appreciating your patronage, of course,” Cherry whispers. Gellert smirks. “How much of a tip do you need to not have to put up with alpha assholes the rest of the night?” 

Cherry draws one knee up onto the couch and cuddles closer. He puts his mouth right next to Gellert’s ear and slides a delicate hand up Gellert’s arm. “I’ve already made rent this month, sir, but it’s my mom’s birthday and I was hoping to make extra,” he answers. To an outside observer, it would appear Cherry is playing his role impeccably, a glittering prize bought by a wealthy businessman. 

“What about class payments?”  
“Alright for now, thank you sir.”  
“You sure you want to leave the trade?” Gellert offers, brushing his larger hand over Cherry’s petite fingers. “I can always offer you ways of protecting yourself. You would make a lovely Swooping Evil.”  
“What’s a swooping evil?”  
“Venomous flying creatures. Amazon rainforest. Lovely colorful wings. You could eat the brains of anyone who threatened you.”

“That’s disgusting, sir,” Cherry whispers, trailing his hand slowly across Gellert’s chest. The corner of Gellert’s mouth curls into a smile. He sets down his glass in midair. “Not as disgusting as most alpha men. Just Grindelwald, please, my dear.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Cherry breathes, dropping his hand lower. “With respect, these are all your men.”  
“I do what I can, but change takes time, and there’s a price to greatness.” Gellert taps Cherry’s wrist warningly, and Cherry sighs and pulls his hand away. “I don’t envy you that, Grindelwald,” he says, tossing his brilliant hair out of his eyes. “Some days neither do I,” Gellert says with a secretive smile. He slides his hand up Cherry’s skirt and tucks a thick roll of bills under his garter. The werewolf guard nearby makes a longsuffering sound, which the two omegas both ignore.

“That won’t stay up,” Cherry whispers, rolling to his knees to put his head close by Gellert’s. Gellert touches him lightly on the arch of his back and casts a tiny spell. “Now it will,” he whispers back. Cherry draws back with a smirk and slides gracefully to his feet. He sashays to the performers’ rooms in the back, blowing kisses to a row of alphas at the bar, the dangling beads on his dress swaying and glittering. 

Gellert watches him go out of the corner of his eye, smiling behind his glass. Omega though he is, Gellert’s winter-sharp scent will ward the others off Cherry as effectively as a barrier charm. Everyone will assume Cherry will be meeting him later, which has admittedly happened before. Whether or not Gellert is mostly paying for massages and book recommendations is nobody’s business but his own.

Everyone knows Gellert is in charge of the shapeshifters here. Hallowers aren’t the only people invited to the party tonight, but it would be difficult to pretend they aren’t the majority. Humans are morphing fluidly between half animal shapes on the dance floor. Gellert is, one way or another, able to grant people that shapeshifter status. Cherry benefits from the Hallowers’ work indirectly, with heat suppressants and contraceptives both far cheaper and more effective bought from smugglers than from legal sources. If Cherry is on a suppressant, it’s one of the more expensive ones like Gellert uses, the sort that smells like it isn’t there at all. There are medical reasons to prefer it, and it’s more provocative, too.

Gellert always offers to let Cherry benefit more directly from the Hallowers, and Cherry always declines. Swearing loyalty and becoming a shapeshifter is a rather serious life choice, which Gellert personally appreciates more than most. He also appreciates the great usefulness of being a shapeshifter, even a limited one, for a young and socially vulnerable omega. High class patrons do provide some increased chance of safety, but there’s nothing so likely to prevent assault as the ability to turn oneself wandlessly and instantly into an anaconda or wolverine.

The dancers and partygoers part for a moment and Abraxas Malfoy emerges to stand before Gellert and bow in greeting. Unlike Gellert, Abraxas has chosen blatantly magical formal attire. His black dress robes glimmer with slowly undulating silver embroidery, which looks vaguely sinister even under The Amulet’s warm lighting. “Grindelwald,” Abraxas says in greeting. The absence of dry commentary means he thinks the party is going well. Gellert grins crookedly and inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“What do you think of the ceiling installation?” Gellert leans his head on the back of the couch. Abraxas follows his gaze to the swirls of black, white, and gold suspended above most of the club. The abstract shapes resemble an artist’s dream of sea creatures, blooms and spirals and flying saucers of luminous light-accented shadow. There must be thousands of pieces, spectrally elegant. The effect is subtle but spectacular.

“Striking,” Abraxas says mildly, which counts as enthusiastic praise for him. “What are they, precisely?”  
“Blown glass,” Gellert replies. “It’s a fascinating art form. The general process is entirely nonmagical but the light charms are a permanent part of the glass. They won’t run out for months at least.”

“Are the charms embedded individually?” Abraxas asks. Gellert has always appreciated how quickly the alpha picks up on important details. “No,” he answers, “they’ve been able to perpetuate a single charm throughout the entire set. It’s mild, but can last for several months. I think the concept can be improved but they’ve done an excellent job on this run.”

“The artistic concept?”

“The concept,” Gellert repeats, meeting Abraxas’s eye. “Ah,” Abraxas says. His polite and distant tone does not deceive Gellert, who recognizes the gleam in the other’s eye as realization kindles there. “What do you think?” Gellert repeats casually, a sly smile spreading on his face. Abraxas sees the invitation for what it is and casts a charm to conceal their words from unwanted listeners. The moment it is in place, he speaks rapidly: “Could a more complex spell be embedded in this material? For how long could the power necessary be stored without weakening or becoming dangerous?”

“So far, yes, it looks promising. Imbuing the materials with the spell or spells is the most fragile step. As for storage, unknown, but perhaps indefinitely.”  
“Indefinitely?”  
“Before activation, the inactive Lumos was nearly undetectable.”  
“What detection methods did you use?” Abraxas asks swiftly; that is, how easily would someone be able to detect such a hidden spell? The answer is, essentially, it would be very difficult. 

“We used Kepler, Odadi, Tesla. Several Ptolemaics.”  
“Ptolemaics could not detect a basic Lumos?” Abraxas says disbelievingly.  
“Not conclusively,” Gellert says slyly, grinning lazily at the avid look on Abraxas’s face. 

Abraxas begins to ask another question, but just then the jazz is interrupted by a change in pitch of the crowd’s voices. Gellert and Abraxas look back toward the dance floor, where the swirling couples have been disrupted and back away from a small knot of people. “Good Circe,” Abraxas mutters in exasperation. It’s some of the Death Eater enforcers: McNair and the Malfoy boy seem to be having some sort of disagreement, and Goyle is trying to keep the two apart. The two larger men raise their voices and the crowd backs further away, muttering in alarm. The doberman guard at Gellert’s side stands up.

Goyle and McNair’s yelling rapidly becomes a tussle in the middle of the dance floor. Lucius Malfoy backs away and turns to rush off for help, while another enforcer, Crabbe, shoves his way toward Goyle and McNair, which only makes the situation worse. McNair gets his wand out and chaos descends. 

Several werewolves leap into action, shielding dancers and other partygoers, becoming wixen between one breath and the next. You can easily identify who’s who based on whether they draw their wands or run. The Death Eaters and guards draw their wands to shield, and the rest get out of the way. Shapeshifted wolves and pigeons and foxes and deer flee for cover in all directions. Glittering golden afterimages are everywhere. 

McNair and the fighting enforcers fling curses at each other, which bounce off the floor and ceiling and the magical glass suspended overhead. Shattered glass and reflected spell bits rain from from the ceiling. Gellert swears, springs to his feet, and begins snapping reflected spells out of the air to stop them hitting people.

Goyle is on the floor, yelling in rage and pain. Crabbe, overeager but effective, actually manages to disarm McNair, as well as four other people in the vicinity he probably wasn’t intending to hit. McNair snarls, pulls a gun, and aims the barrel right at Crabbe’s face. Several things happen very fast. A dancer screams, three different spells flash through the air, and McNair fires. 

Everything freezes. Shards of falling glass hang suspended in midair. Crabbe topples over, unconscious, hit by a poorly aimed stunning spell probably meant for McNair. The bullet from McNair’s gunshot hangs midair, a few inches out of the barrel like a movie freeze frame. McNair himself is frozen too, mid-movement, gun still aimed, ferocious expression fixed and immobile on his face. The partygoers have flinched into silence and stillness. Goyle rolls into a sitting position, pale-faced and swearing and clutching his broken arm.

Grindelwald advances on the scene, bits of glass crunching beneath his feet. His pale eyes flicker between the combatants beneath the suspended shards of glass. On the opposite side of the room, Tom Riddle rises from the huddle of people, wand still pointed at McNair, eyes blazing. He meets Grindelwald in the center of the room and bows fluidly, scarcely looking away from McNair. “This disturbance was unacceptable,” he says immediately; “Grindelwald, I must apologize for my enforcers’ behavior.”

Grindelwald does not reply, but watches Riddle cooly, waiting. At the implicit acknowledgement that yes, the disturbance is unacceptable, Riddle’s posture shifts subtly, and he meets Grindelwald’s assessing gaze for a brief moment. Grindelwald waits. “This must be the result of a prior argument, an argument I thought we had solved,” Riddle says softly, his lip curling. His furious gaze returns relentlessly toward McNair, immobile, and Lucius Malfoy, who stands some distance away and has an expression suggesting he too might as well have been frozen by magic. The werewolf guards, now in human form, begin gracefully directing the partygoers away from the margins of the dance floor and the path of the not yet fallen shards of glass. 

Grindelwald holds the broken glass suspended overhead with barely a thought. All his attention is on the margins, watching for other threats in case this is a distraction, and on Riddle. Young, clever, ambitious Riddle rules the Hallowers’ enforcers with a fearsome hand, and Grindelwald has watched his hunger for power and violence grow more alarming by the month. 

Grindelwald knows himself well enough to recognize the similarities between them, as well as the differences, where reaching into the dark arts begins to taint the young man, and worse, the way Riddle has subtly embraced it. Riddle smells like nothing, not like suppressants but an active nothingness, a yawning gulf. He’s done something to his magic in recent months, and his scent has changed with it. He smells empty, flavorless, hungry. His bottomless eyes pin McNair and the younger Malfoy, and it is not unreasonable to think he might just kill them with his eyes. People are watching them. 

“Is the petrification yours?” Grindelwald finally breaks the silence between them, following Riddle’s glare toward the statue-like figure of McNair, the bullet, and the gun. “Yes,” Riddle hisses. Grindelwald casts the counterspell to release Crabbe from his stunning, just in time for the big man to roll out of the way of Riddle’s indifferent prowling steps. He circles around McNair to stare the immobilized man in the face. “The spell is mine,” Riddle whispers, “and this man is about to not be mine.” 

With that, Riddle reverses his petrification and sends the bullet speeding back in the opposite direction it had come. With a bang, it goes backwards, _through_ the gun, clean through McNair’s hand and transfixing the man through the throat. One of the werewolves slaps the bullet out of the air with a spell before it can hit anyone else, but it’s too late for McNair. The man’s eyes bulge and he crumples with a gurgle at Riddle’s feet. “Clean this up,” Riddle says silkily, knowing without looking that Crabbe and Goyle will struggle to their feet to obey. They do, of course, watching their supervisor with fearful eyes.

Grindelwald resists the urge to curl his lip at this display. Of all the most undiplomatic ways to handle a situation, Riddle has as usual chosen the worst, the most permanent and most violent. Furthermore, Riddle is certainly aware of this fact, and likely does not care. He meets Grindelwald’s impassive gaze with hooded eyes. “Forgive me, sir,” he says, the picture of deference, “but I cannot tolerate such disrespectful behavior in your presence.”

Neither of them believes that statement for a second, but Grindelwald will play along for an audience that includes people outside the Hallower leadership, and they both know it. “Your enthusiasm is noted,” Grindelwald says, “but in the future I would prefer not to waste magical blood, Riddle.”

“As you say,” Riddle replies, with one of his charming smiles that never reach his eyes. People are starting to creep out from behind furniture and the bar. A few of the Hallowers begin repairing furniture, with the werewolf guards looking around with sharp eyes, daring anyone else to cause such trouble. Riddle returns his wand to an inner pocket of his dinner jacket and turns back to where his subordinates are hesitating to step too close to him to deal with McNair’s body. 

“Well?” Riddle demands in a whisper, and they hurry closer to obey, apologizing in hushed voices and avoiding his eyes. Crabbe cleans the floor and levitates the corpse while Goyle conjures a sheet to cover it, wincing at every movement that jostles his arm. Knowing Riddle will ignore the man’s pain, Grindelwald flicks out a spell to repair Goyle’s broken arm. The bones click back together with a nasty sounding snap. Goyle swears through his teeth but does not pause in obeying Riddle to express his thanks. Grindelwald turns his back on them.

With an easy, reassuring smile, Grindelwald apologizes to the room at large for the inconvenience and instructs the barman to put everyone’s drinks and tabs for the night under his own name. Nothing he says will erase the ugly impression from their memories, but he’ll play off the incident as another facet of his Hallowers’ fearsome reputation, for those who do not already know about the tension with the Death Eaters. “No more interruptions, please,” he adds to the guards, with a deliberately carrying voice and a dangerous smile. It is a mark of how frightening they expect Grindelwald himself to be that most of the partygoers take his reassurance at face value, and the party slowly resumes again.

The jazz band resumes playing while Grindelwald repairs the glass ceiling and most of the art. Under the dance floor’s dusky half light, the glass shards and glittering dust flow together like water, their shattered facets flashing as they merge and fade into seamless wholeness again. What a shame, Gellert thinks grimly, that not every broken thing can be fixed so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me trying to be dramatic, am I doing it right? Come yell at me about wizard gangsters and high femme vs masc omegas on tumblr [@ tiny-trashcan](http://tiny-trashcan.tumblr.com). Updates are likely to become irregular from now on because I write scenes out of order, so this fic has an end but some chapters are still in need of editing in the middle, and because school's starting soon and will eat my lunch. Yippee.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter eight warnings: none, just some good cute gradence.
> 
> Also I made an [aesthetic post](a%20href=) related to this chapter!
> 
>   
>    
> 

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By early April, many of the trees downtown are covered in white flowers. Blooming tulips grow ever taller in the narrow strip between Percival’s loft and the sidewalk. There appears to be some kind of tradition in the department where the aurors change the colors of the tulips far too often to be natural, and Percival jokingly threatens them over it. The wards on the loft prevent any mugs from actually noticing the changes, Tina explains, but according to Percival, it’s about the principle of the thing.

Creeds thinks he is doing a reasonable job of not overreacting every time Percival gives him an interested look or strikes up a friendly conversation over Tina’s unoccupied desk. Percival only gets more interesting every time Creeds sees him. Creeds has decided he’s done cowering for the rest of his life, though he can’t quite decide if Percival’s easygoing attention makes that easier or more difficult. Queenie occasionally winks at him when odd thoughts about Percival float across his mind but thankfully nobody else teases him. Maybe the entire auror department is more subtle than they normally appear, but he thinks his own calmness is a more likely explanation for why nobody has said anything to him about his crush. 

His crush becomes more immediately relevant through a simple coincidence. It’s on a day when the tulips in front of the loft have been turned an alarmingly bright orange. Creeds had had class in the morning and stayed up late solving a minor fiasco with Mod the previous night, so he’d forgotten to pack himself a lunch. He’d been about to tentatively ask Tina for lunch suggestions, but she had been swept off into an unexpected flurry of duty related to a portkey traffic accident. The rest of the aurors in the loft are called out with her. Suddenly Creeds and Percival are the only two people in the entire loft. Creeds is trying to figure out what to do, and hoping not to do anything particularly stupid.

“Last one of the group today, huh?” Percival says casually. Creeds drops his pencil. He had been so focused on acting normal he hadn’t noticed when Percival walked right up to the table where he’s sitting. “I guess so,” Creeds answers. “Um. Are you not on duty?” he asks, glancing at the floor and deciding not to awkwardly dive under the table to look for his pencil. 

“Not this afternoon, I’ve got a few hours since tonight’s an overnight,” Percival says. He holds out his hand and Creeds’s pencil floats apologetically out from under the table. Percival picks it out of the air and offers it to him. “Thanks,” Creeds says, scrambling for something to say. He tries, “Do you sleep extra for overnight shifts?” 

“Yeah, I’ll take a nap later,” Percival says. “I don’t really have shifts, I just go in whenever they need me. Kowalski doesn’t have overnights, does he?” 

Creeds shakes his head and finds himself relaxing a little more. “No, just really early mornings. Chastity works night shifts a lot and I, um. I used to have night shifts. It’s not so bad if you have the same shift all the time. You have irregular hours then?”

Percival nods and leans his hip on the table. He says, “Mostly I work during the day, but I’m the boss, so there’s always something extra going on that’s my problem to fix.” “That sucks,” Creeds says without thinking, and flinches a little because his mother would smack him for that kind of language. 

“It can be a hard job, but I like having work that matters,” Percival says, because he’s not at all like Creeds’s mother. Creeds thinks maybe Percival did notice the flinch, but he kindly doesn’t mention it. Instead, Percival continues, “I need to eat breakfast or something before I get sucked into paperwork.”

“Breakfast?” Creeds says in surprise, glancing at the clock. It’s almost one. “Brunch, then?” Percival concedes with a smile. “I was up after midnight doing paperwork for a dragon case, so I kinda slept through breakfast. Have you eaten lunch?” Creeds blinks and an answering smile spreads across his own face. “I haven’t had lunch. What kind of dragon case?”

Percival brightens at Creeds’s smile and says, “Some idiots on the east side were trying to get video of a sewer dragon with their phones.”  
“What?”  
“It was really damn stupid of them. They were trying to lure the dragons with barbecue pizza. You want to get lunch?”

“Do dragons like pizza?” Creeds asks, because that doesn’t honestly seem any more ridiculous than the idea of dragons living in the sewers on the east side. “Couldn't say,” Percival grins, “but the Creatures division was pretty pissed about the whole thing. I’m glad I wasn’t either of those kids’ parents. They probably had to listen to a lecture about not feeding the delicate five-ton wildlife.”

“Oh, lunch,” Creeds says, his brain catching up with Percival’s question. “I should get lunch, probably. I mean, I would like to get lunch! But I don’t exactly have a lot of spending money.” He really would like to eat lunch with Percival, very much, and hopes that is what Percival meant. Percival says, “I’ve got a bunch of stuff upstairs if you want to get lunch here.”

“Thank you. I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Creeds says, trying to shut up the part of his brain that’s yelling at him that Percival wants to eat lunch with him, like a date, in the upstairs loft, which is Percival’s house, which is a very personal date. “You wouldn’t be intruding, if you want to stay,” Percival says quickly, looking hopeful. He adds, “I don’t know, maybe you have somewhere to be, though?” 

Creeds could say no, but that might be rude, and also he doesn’t want to say no. “I don’t have work until four,” Creeds says, and because he might as well, he also says, “I would like to eat lunch with you, thank you.”

Percival looks delighted by this and leads the way to the back stairs, which lead to the second floor of the loft. “Did they find the dragons?” Creeds asks on the way up. Percival waves open the door and Creeds feels the now familiar swooping, tingling sensation of passing through security wards. Percival says, “The kids last night, yeah, they were probably lucky not to get eaten. I didn’t actually see this, I just heard about it for the paperwork.”

“What kind of paperwork do you have to do for swamp dragons?”  
“Any crime involving dragons in an urban area has to be reported to the Feds within twenty-four hours. The dragons are mostly a pain, and they’re not exactly endangered around here, but that’s the rules. Do you like pizza or sandwiches?”

“Anything is fine,” Creeds says, looking around Percival’s private floor of the loft. Compared to the Barebones’ apartments of the past, the space is huge, well lit, and clean in a way most accessible to magicians and extremely rich people. Percival has an entryway, and real wood floors, and a big living room, and what looks like a private library or an office behind glass-paned double doors. His bedroom and who knows what else must be down the hall by the kitchen.

“Come on in,” Percival says, gesturing Creeds toward the bar. Percival’s kitchen is large enough to fit the Barebones’ last kitchen and breakfast table inside it. Creeds sets down his backpack and stares in amazement at a painting that makes it look like the wall of the living room opens onto a beach. A life-sized painted seagull flies across the surface of the painting and out of sight. “Wow,” Creeds says quietly, watching the painted waves move, and catches Percival smiling at him.

“What kind of pizza do you like?” Percival asks. “Mozzarella? Extra tomatoes? Sausage?” He coaxes Creeds into picking a few ingredients and directs a pizza to assemble itself in midair while they sit at the bar. Creeds feels just this side of squirmy with excitement and has to work not to be sidetracked by the hints of Percival’s orange-citrus scent all around.

Percival asks Creeds what he’s been up to today, which is a good distraction from Percival’s astounding home and a good excuse to look at Percival’s face. Creeds talks about school, and about laundry for his Charms homework. The spells for washing clothes are incredibly entertaining now that he’s figured out how to make the soap colorful and bubbly. He mentions this without thinking about whether Percival cares about his laundry and instantly, reflexively regrets it. He often gets a tiny flash of fear and embarrassment for being silly, saying anything unnecessary, and he’s just described a chore he’d turned into a ridiculous game and wasted time—

But Percival doesn’t react to any of these things for which Creeds would have once been punished. He doesn’t react to Creeds’s moment of frozen worry, and instead asks if Creeds has figured out how to charm the bubbles so they don’t pop. Creeds hasn’t; Percival explains the charm. Percival then sets the pizza to bake in the oven, which he says tastes better than using magic, and tells a story about charming rainbow soap bubbles to stick all over his bedroom walls when he was twelve. Percival clearly had a much kinder mother than Creeds, and makes the story sound very funny, so that Creeds finds himself laughing easily by the time the pizza is ready.

The pizza tastes great and Creeds says so. Percival looks flattered, and something about that makes it easier for Creeds to sit up straight. There’s plenty of pizza to go around, so Creeds doesn’t feel too guilty about eating as much as he wants. Percival asks, “How did Modesty’s book report go?”

Ah, Percival remembered his comment from the other day. That’s one of the many really impressive things about Percival, that he seems genuinely interested in Creeds’s sisters. Creeds gladly spends the next half hour talking about how Mod actually finished a book that was assigned instead of reading library books for once, and did a great job on her book report for class. The teacher gave her an A and even sent home a nice note about it, which Creeds has taped in a place of honor on the fridge. 

Creeds tells how Mod is extra happy this week because her siblings gave her permission to go to a sleepover, which had never been allowed before. Percival asks about Chastity too. Not much has changed for Chas since December, really, except for her getting enough sleep and not needing to worry so much. Creeds isn’t sure he can remember a time before now when Chastity’s scent was sweet and calm more often than not.

Mod still gets into fights, but Creeds and Chas have spent a lot of time talking to her school counselor. There had been one incident of Mod talking about witches at lunch and getting angry when an older student made fun of her for believing fairy tales, several months back. Luckily nobody had taken her seriously when she said it was true, and after her siblings had a serious conversation with her about being more careful, that problem has not repeated itself.

After eating their way through a second entire pizza, Creeds and Percival get to talking about graffiti, which happens rather often. Recently someone spray-painted a poorly drawn three-headed dog on a warehouse, which wouldn’t be a big deal except that the painting kept barking at pedestrians. Percival was forced to spare an entire obliviation team for the day. The graffiti could have been done by Hallowers or possibly just some bored CWSI students. Percival doesn’t like magic street graffiti, because it’s a pain in his ass to deal with and it wastes his aurors’ time.

“I like graffiti,” Creeds reminds him quietly. Percival sighs, not impatiently, and leans his chin on his hand. “Yeah, I know you do,” Percival says. “Remind me why?” 

He has the mild, open expression Creeds has come to recognize. Though Creeds hasn’t decided what it means, it’s encouraging enough for Creeds to think properly about how he would like to answer the question. Percival has pretty brown eyes, and Creeds does like his attention ever so much.

Creeds says, “I like that graffiti puts colors in places you don’t expect to see anything nice. People do paint dirty words a lot of the time, but not always. I like the ones that are drawings of things.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah, like…” Creeds trails off and reconsiders that he is after all talking to a cop, and probably shouldn’t admit to vandalizing buildings. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this,” he says.

“What, you know some wix graffiti artists?” Percival asks with a half smile and quirked eyebrows. “If there’s no magic involved, muggle vandalism laws are not my problem,” he clarifies. Creeds would bet that some of the werewolves in Remus’s studio are wix graffiti artists. He likes Percival quite a lot and doesn’t want to lie, so he doesn’t mention the werewolves, and says, “I used to paint flowers in alleyways. And clouds. That kind of thing.”

“Oh really?” Percival says. “It makes the space look nicer,” Creeds replies, trying to think of how to explain. “It gets dark so fast in the narrower streets. We never lived in nice places, my family. People get robbed and beat up in the alleys a lot. I couldn’t fix it, but, I don’t know. Painting white flowers back there, with all the rainbow words…it felt like I was fixing something.”

“Maybe you could show me sometime,” Percival suggests. His scent smells fresh and honest; Creeds is pleasantly surprised. “If you want,” he says. “I don’t have any paint right now, the last I had ran out.”

“What if I got you some?” Percival asks. “Spray paint shouldn’t be too hard to make. You can use the back alley wall if you like.” Creeds looks up, startled. “The alley, here? You’d let me paint on the loft?” Perce shrugs and answers lightly, “I can’t very well tell you to paint on someone else’s building.” Creeds wasn’t really expecting to have Perce take his offer quite that seriously. Even after all this time of knowing Percival, the ease of the conversation’s progression feels a little strange, and nice.

Percival conjures spray paint and gloves for Creeds to use, and they make their way downstairs. The back alley is clean and mostly empty, much cleaner than the alleyways where he’s painted before. Percival stands back and watches. Creeds feels more anticipation than unease at having Percival watching him paint, oddly enough. 

He can’t quite think of what would be a good thing to paint on Percival’s wall, so he paints the beginnings of his usual flower. He’s drawn hundreds of versions of this flower, doodled it on scraps of paper and napkins and receipts, and finally got it inked on his skin, not that anyone else has seen it to know that. It’s what he draws on everything when he doesn’t know what to draw. 

Creeds focuses on the flower rather than letting himself get too jittery, nervous and excited in a way that makes magic buzz under his skin. _It’s okay,_ he tells himself. _There’s nobody here but Percival, and you like Percival, and he likes you. You’re safe. This is a good kind of different._ They’re in the concealed alley behind the loft, so the only people who might wander back here are other wixen. It’s not like Creeds will get in trouble for vandalism even if someone does show up unexpectedly, since it’s Percival’s wall, and Percival is standing right there.

“Need a different color?” Percival asks behind him. Creeds had paused, distracted by his thoughts, and Percival’s words bring him back to himself. He shakes his head and feels like his heart trips over itself, because he has his unprotected back to Percival and he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t remember reaching that level of comfort with Percival. “No, thank you, I’m just thinking,” Creeds says. He adds a few squiggles of white around what will be the flower’s outer edges.

In the tattoo version, delicately layered petals are shown by simple black lines. Creeds paints pink and white first to give the petals color, adds a few slashes of green for the jagged edge of a leaf, and then moves on to the heavy lines of the original design. He paints them red, and goes over them with black, giving the lines a sort of red glow. It doesn’t turn out as subtle as he intended but it doesn’t look bad. 

He finally looks back at Percival to see his reaction. Percival is looking at the painted flower with the sort of smile that Creeds interprets as pleasantly surprised. When he notices Creeds looking at him, Percival says, “I like it. It looks nice.”

“Thanks,” Creeds says. “Is that a rose?” Percival asks. Creeds shrugs. The flower has layered petals like a rose, but it’s not quite like one. Creeds replies, “I don’t know. It’s kind of a lily. I don’t know if any flowers actually look like this.”

Percival tilts his head speculatively, still with that smile. “It’s not what I was expecting when you started. I’m really impressed, I mean, it’s spray paint, but you made it look classy.” His voice warms as he turns his eyes on Creeds, who can’t help but smile back. Percival looks at him long enough Creeds feels a blush rising to his cheeks, and he glances away with the excuse of making sure he’s capped the paint properly.

Percival clears his throat and Creeds risks another look up at him. Percival looks a little flustered too, to Creeds’s surprise. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the painted flower and says, “Listen, Creeds. I’d like to take you out to lunch properly sometime.” Creeds almost drops the paint he’s holding. “I’d like that too,” he says, too quickly, and feels his blush darkening. Percival is still looking at the flower with studied casualness and doesn’t notice. He says, “I know you don’t have a lot of spending money, but I know some good places that don’t cost too much, or I could pay for your lunch.”

Creeds says eagerly, “You don’t have to pay for me. I would get lunch with you anyway.” Percival looks at him then and takes in Creeds’s flustered expression with a dawning smile. He adds, “Just to be clear I mean lunch like a date, romantically.” 

“Yes,” Creeds says.  
“You ok with that?” Percival persists, and Creeds really can’t be blamed for sounding excited. “Yes,” he says, fighting to sound like a normal person, “I would very much like to go on a date with you.” Percival is beaming at him now. “Oh good,” he says, and he sounds so pleased Creeds has to smile back at him.

“But why me?” Creeds can’t help but ask. Percival raises his eyebrows. He says, “I like talking to you. You listen well, and you’re incredibly brave. You’re doing amazingly well and working really hard to learn magic, and I admire that. Someone who can go through what you have and still be as nice as you are—I want to get to know that kind of person.”

Creeds fiddles with the spray paint he’s holding, his face glowing at the praise, feeling like awkward and gangly and certainly not unusually brave. He protests, “I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m getting therapy because I blew up an apartment.” Percival says promptly, “You protected your sisters while blowing up an apartment. With magic you didn’t even know you had.” It hadn’t felt impressive at all, but Percival sounds so damn proud that Creeds ducks his head shyly.

Percival steps closer so he can look up into Creeds’s face. He says earnestly, “Going to therapy only proves my point. Getting better is hard. Asking for help when you need it is hard. Going to therapy is brave. And you love yours sisters so much, it’s obvious. Not everyone who goes through really bad situations comes out as kind a person as you are.”

“How do you know Mary Lou was really bad?” Creeds asks. Perhaps it’s a ridiculous question considering how they met, but for some reason he wants to hear Percival explain it. “Because that’s what an obscurial is,” Percival answers gently. “You’re a person who went through a lot of suffering and you came out a good person on the other side.”

Oh. Not very many people have said it quite like that. Creeds has to think about this for a long time and almost succeeds in sounding like he isn’t about to cry. Finally, he says, “Thank you.”

He flounders for more words, better words to express how much it means to him to have Percival’s good opinion. Percival is so calm and brave, and he’s seen Creeds literally disintegrated into a monstrous storm of pain, and here he is telling Creeds he’s a good person, and even that he likes him, enough to want a date. A second date, if today can be counted, and Creeds thinks it can. Percival’s standing quite close to him, hasn’t backed up to put space between them. He has to look up at Creeds; he’s several inches shorter. He smells like beta and citrus.

“Thank you,” Creeds says again, and then he thinks anxiously, if Percival really wants to date him, then maybe… “May I kiss you?” Creeds asks. Percival blinks and a slow smile blooms across his face. “If you want to,” he says.

Creeds feels a flare of confidence and boldly steps into Percival’s space, close enough Percival has to tilt his head back further to look at him. He immediately flounders at the eagerness in Percival’s eyes. “I’ve never actually kissed anyone before,” Creeds says without thinking. He almost wishes he hadn’t, but Percival just blinks and does something funny with his eyebrows. “Oh wow. okay,” Percival says, and reaches up to hold Creeds’s face in his hands. Creeds is going to have a heart attack if Percival keeps giving him these ridiculously attractive smiles. Creeds leans forward and closes his eyes and lets Percival close the gap.

At some point, one of them realizes Creeds probably ought to get his stuff so he can go to work. They go inside and Creeds gathers up his school bag, sneaking glances at Percival every three seconds, always to find Percival still grinning at him. Creeds asks for another kiss before he leaves and they end up making out on the couch. Kissing is exhilarating and strange, and Creeds notices details in bits and pieces, floating around in a haze of bliss: Percival’s lips moving against his, no idea what to do with his own hands, a hand on the back of his neck, a hint of a nip from Percival’s teeth, the shock of a wet tongue.

Creeds honestly didn’t know tongues could get involved in kissing, but that is an extremely interesting piece of information. From up close, Percival smells like allspice and oranges. Creeds can’t string together enough coherent thought to do anything but keep his arms wrapped around Percival’s neck and tentatively move his tongue in imitation of Percival’s. He almost doesn’t notice the burn of his own arousal because there’s simply so much to feel at once.

Percival is a fantastic kisser and is also about six inches away from sitting in Creeds’s lap. He has his fingers in Creeds’s hair and keeps scratching lightly at the short hair on the back of his neck. Creeds accidentally scrapes his teeth against Percival’s lower lip, and Percival makes a low sound almost like a purr. He pulls back, turns his head to the side, and gently nips Creeds’s earlobe. It’s both arousing and kind of weird, just weird enough to make Creeds aware again of what he’s doing. He likes Percival so much, and he’s very attractive, but Creeds has never kissed anyone before, let alone a guy. 

He suddenly notices he can smell a trace of his own arousal, tangy sweet, and a tiny voice in his head immediately starts yelling about indecency and his mother finding out. Obviously she can’t punish him, and being gay isn’t bad, and he wants Percival, but noticing himself makes him freeze with sudden nervousness. Percival pulls back immediately. “How’re you doing?”

“Um, yeah, good, I’m…” Creeds flounders. Percival looks closely at him and pulls back to a safer distance. He settles himself next to Creeds on the couch rather than leaning against Creeds’s thigh. Percival places his arm around Creeds’s shoulders and sighs contentedly when Creeds relaxes again. 

“Sorry,” Creeds says quietly, and Percival turns to look up at him.  
“For what?”

“I’m just not ready for anything else, I don’t think.” Creeds looks at his knees so he doesn’t have to see Percival looking disappointed, but when Percival answers, he doesn’t sound disappointed at all. “It’s fine, you don’t need to apologize. I like this. Whatever you need.”

Creeds chances a look up at Percival, and he doesn’t look disappointed either. He offers Creeds a small smile and Creeds hides his face in Percival’s shoulder. “Thanks,” Creeds says softly. Percival wraps an arm around him and starts running his hand through with Creeds’s hair. His moment of unease and previous excitement mellow out until he’s able to think clearly again, and enjoy the fingertips scritching lightly over his scalp. He’s almost sure this was a weird first date, but not a bad one, not at all.

Their cuddling almost makes Creeds late for work. Instead of letting him take the bus, Percival takes him by side-along apparition, and he gets there early instead of late. Percival walks into Kowalski’s with him and buys a cookie from Creeds right after he clocks in. 

Creeds is certain he will never be able to look at Percival ever again without thinking about what it feels like to kiss him. Now that they’re back in public, Creeds’s embarrassment reasserts itself with a vengeance. Queenie isn’t there to giggle at him when he blushes at Percival’s cheerful smile, thank god. Legilimency is such a hazard. There’s got to be some magic to keep his thoughts private in his own head. Percival really is charming, though, so Creeds will definitely kiss him again even if it does mean Queenie hears about it. He’s still blushing long after Percival waves goodbye and walks out the bakery door.

When one of the aurors tells Percival someone graffitied the back alley, Percival says, “Hm. I’ll deal with it later. Thanks.” The auror says, “I tried to get it off but someone put a hardcore unwashable jinx on it.” “Really?” Percival says without looking up from his work, and continues sipping his coffee. 

Percival never will get around to removing the flowers painted in the alley. If questioned about it, he will claim with his best deadpan expression that he has no idea, but doesn’t the Chicago MLE have better things to do than worry about paintings in alleyways? More painted flowers appear in the alley behind the loft, and even the most clueless aurors eventually quit asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First gradence kiss of the fic occurs in an alleyway, because I think I’m hilarious. The dialogue in this chapter gave me some trouble so comments would be especially appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creeds had not intended to avoid every Hallower he’d worked with, but it just sort of happened. 
> 
> Chapter nine warnings: none

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Creeds had not intended to avoid every Hallower he’d worked with, but it just sort of happened. In December he had been too shocked and too busy with the sudden and rather violent introduction into the legal wizarding side of Chicago. In January he had still been shocked, off balance and mourning and angry all at once. Between new classes, keeping track of Mod, and getting used to his MACUSA-appointed therapist, he’d just barely kept it together. Trying to keep it together is a little scarier now that he knows it’s possible to literally explode from stress. It’s gotten easier, and a lot of good things have happened—friendships, magic classes, his sisters learning to be safe and happy, and of course, Percival—but the longer Creeds goes on without seeing any places or people from his previous life, the harder it gets to imagine seeing any of them again. It bothers him.

One of his first actions after being “rescued” by the aurors had been to slip away in the middle of the night and drop his Hallower necklace off a bridge into the Chicago River. It felt both freeing and uncomfortable. Mod once got in trouble at dinner for telling them about a book she read about foxes. She said a fox with its foot caught in a trap will chew its own leg off to escape and survive. Letting go of the necklace feels like that. Even though the magical oaths that keep him from telling the Hallowers’ secrets still bind his voice, throwing away the necklace feels like cutting off a part of his own body. 

He no longer has their symbol as his pass. It will be much more difficult for someone like one of the Lestranges to find him without it. It will also be difficult, perhaps even impossible, for him to enter a Hallower warehouse ever again. It feels like a betrayal, abandoning all the time he spent working as a carrier and the people that introduced him to the magical world. Yet he knows with absolute certainty that as long as he receives help from the Chicago MLE and MACUSA, as long as he and his sisters owe them for their safety, he can never work for the Hallowers again. 

What must the other carriers think? Do they mutter about him, see his name in the wix papers and resent his unexpected fortune of a route into the full wix society? Do they hate him? But he loves magic. He learns to use it with an ease that feels disorientingly ordinary. It feels more like a better version of middle school than like the revolution it is. He loves the safety of the MLE offices and the loft, safety he feels so keenly, safety the aurors trust without question. He will never, ever take safety for granted.

He has missed visiting Remus, and as spring moves towards summer, his guilt becomes more pronounced. Has Remus missed him? He thinks Remus liked him. But carriers vanish all the time. Carriers are not real Hallowers, have no ability to tell important secrets, and are not pursued when they leave. Even in death, their oaths bind them. Werewolves are not going to show up at his sisters’ front door looking for him. He was just a mug, not a real Hallower. He almost wishes they would try to find him. 

He might be able to visit Remus in the glass studio, but would any of the werewolves even look at him? He wouldn’t mind if the other big intimidating werewolves ignored him, but what about Remus? The longer he waits and does nothing, the more guilty he feels.

Creeds might never have gone looking for Remus Lupin except for the radio. Mr. Kowalski lets them listen to the radio while they work in the back at the bakery, and one of the other assistants usually sets it to a magical station. The radio has been charmed so only other magicians can understand what it’s saying. There’s jazz radio that sounds normal except for the nonhuman vocalists, a pop station with lots of songs about enchantments and love potions, and several stations full of local news and quidditch commentary and incendiary talk shows. Creeds listens whenever he has attention to spare, which is not often. 

But the last day of April, he nearly drops a tray of freshly baked cookies when he walks across from the ovens and hears a familiar voice. “—-nothing to do with blood status per se, but rather with the severe consequences for any children being forced to enter an entirely unknown culture while learning to control volatile new abilities at a young age,” says the smooth voice on the radio. The magically enhanced speaker is so crisp it sounds like Gellert Grindelwald is standing across the room. Creeds sets the cookie sheet in its rack with extra care, straining to listen.

“And that’s why you have supported mass integration programs, is that right?” asks the radio commentator. Grindelwald’s voice replies, “Cultural integration programs would serve young wixen already partially integrated into our community, but only as a temporary measure. If we do not address the root cause of the problem there will always be people who slip through the cracks.”

Creeds listens to the rest of the interview with wide eyes. He nearly burns himself on the cookie sheets because he’s so distracted by the words. Why hadn’t it occurred to him Grindelwald must have a legally acceptable persona? This is his world, after all, just a different side of it than where Creeds met him. The commentator ends the interview by reminding listeners that he was speaking to “local entrepreneur and political activist Gellert Grindelwald.” 

As best Creeds can tell, the interview is about Grindelwald’s involvement in some kind of wizarding cultural immersion program for new Ilvermorny students. Grindelwald also apparently supports some kind of werewolf civil rights advocacy group. The interviewer talks like Grindelwald is a perfectly normal wizard, or at least not a criminal. It’s one of the most bizarre things to happen to Creeds all month, including that that his fingers have started turning into smoke whenever he concentrates too hard in Transfiguration class.

A werewolf advocacy group. Imagine that. What on earth do wizarding advocacy groups do? Creeds tries to picture Grindelwald with his cheerful smirk and fancy clothes handing out cheap fliers like the political groups on campus. That doesn’t seem likely. He thinks of asking Remus, and then remembers he hasn’t seen Remus in almost five months. 

Creeds also remembers he is currently friendly with a lot of aurors, and aurors tend to arrest every member of the Hallowers they can get their hands on. That group could easily include Grindelwald and Remus. Creeds wonders momentarily whether Grindelwald has even noticed he is gone. Then he remembers that his name has been in the newspapers, if not his picture, because he blew up a city block. Grindelwald and Remus will both have heard why he hasn’t come back. He doesn’t know how to feel about Grindelwald, so he focuses on Remus.

Creeds was never a real Hallower and never made any promises of loyalty. Still, he feels a wave of guilt imagining the look on Remus’s face if he had to tell Remus that he’s dating the head auror of the MLE. What in heaven’s name would Remus say? Creeds does not regret Percival for a second, and the aurors he knows all seem like good people, and yet. Remus is a werewolf, a shapeshifter, and almost certainly a Hallower, and Percival is an auror.

Creeds has scarcely seen a werewolf since last December, and he used to see them all the time. Creeds has learned that werewolves are second class citizens in the legal side of wix Chicago. In fact, it seems like werewolves are barely treated like citizens at all. Werewolves don’t get to attend CWSI or Hogwarts. Werewolves don’t get good jobs. They get arrested constantly for violent crimes. Werewolves, the big wix papers and radio shows almost always declare, are just this side of wild animals. 

The papers regularly speculate that the Hallower circles are full of werewolves, though apparently nobody has any proof. Creeds physically cannot tell anyone, not with magical oaths binding his words, but he knows the papers are right. And now here is Creeds, who knows that at least some werewolves are like Remus, kind and honest, and yet he’s dating Percival. 

He ought to question whether the aurors really are good people, knowing what he knows about werewolves. People like Perce arrest people like Remus. He doesn’t think Perce would arrest someone for no reason, but people who work for him do arrest werewolves an awful lot, and Perce doesn’t stop them. It doesn’t seem right, and now that he’s thinking about it, Creeds can’t ignore it. He doesn’t know what Percival thinks about werewolves, and unlike Creeds, Percival is someone with power in this city. Percival could make things different. For all the talk of weeding out corruption, Creeds isn’t sure whether Perce has tried to do anything about the mistreatment of werewolves. This is going to be uncomfortable.

Everything else aside, it has been months, and Creeds really ought to talk to Remus. He’s reminded forcefully of that when he hears Grindelwald on the bakery radio a second time that week. He again almost drops a tray of pastries in surprise and feels like an idiot for it. Grindelwald’s faint accent becomes more pronounced when he gets caught up in a speech, apparently.

“Our secrecy no longer serves us, I tell you,” Grindelwald insists through the radio, sounding as though he’s standing in the back room with them. “How many more undiscovered young witches and wizards are in this country right now, suffering the consequences of our irresponsibility?”

“The government can’t even tell us how many magical children they’re missing! How many magical children have been lost to our community forever because of poverty and abuse? We abandon them to isolation and misery at best.” Grindelwald’s voice drops lower, accusing, and Creeds leans around the cooling racks to keep listening. “MACUSA has the audacity to tell us our own secrecy is worth more than identifying children that might need help. If we tell magical children their own true nature and alert their families, it is against the law. If we remove magical children from dangerously bigoted families, it is against the law. I ask you, who do these laws protect?”

“Pretty different, isn’t he?”  
Creeds jerks back guiltily. Sonya Macmillan, one of the other employees on shift, breezes past with an empty display tray and starts filling it with muffins. “What?” Creeds says. She jerks her head at the radio. “Grindelwald. Kind of crazy, maybe, but got some ideas. What d’you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Creeds says, strangely embarrassed to be caught listening, even though he wasn’t technically slacking on the job. He knows a lot more about the Hallowers than he can say, so now he has to pretend he doesn’t know anything. “Who is he?” Creeds asks, to try and act natural.

“Some rich business guy,” she says, counting muffins left on the racks. “He’s super into, like, making dark magic legal, I guess? It’s his fault the city is crawling with werewolves now.”  
“Oh really?”  
“Yeah, he apparently hires them without background checks and stuff, it’s super sketchy. He’s rich though so I guess he can afford to be crazy. I wouldn’t want to work with werewolves, would you?”  
“I don’t know,” Creeds says vaguely, feeling uncomfortable. He busies himself with checking the ovens and is glad to let the subject drop. He makes a note of the radio station—he’ll look up the rest online later—and the moment he gets off his shift, he takes the L to the south side. 

He gets off near Armour Square and walks to the glass studio, feeling his magic buzzing nervously under his skin. There are so many small details he’d already forgotten since December. Lingering trace scents of aggression and fear stick to the inside of his mouth as he slips down the alleys. Little weeds grow through cracks in the cement and someone forgot to have their trash taken out farther up the alley from the studio’s back entrance. The weather is warm enough he’s afraid they might not be working the glass furnaces at all, and then he worries that Remus might not be there. The back door is open, though, so he steels himself and slips inside.

As usual, it’s much darker inside, and he pauses not far past the doorway, blinking rapidly and gasping at the heat. The hot air from the furnaces hits him much harder than usual. The scents of soot, hot glass, that furnace smell, and at least ten werewolves almost knock him back a step. He hasn’t been in here since he presented, he realizes with a thread of unease, suddenly acutely aware of several heavy alpha scents. This is definitely someone else’s space, more obvious than he remembers it being before, and his own scent is edging towards bitterly smoky with unease. 

He almost turns around and walks out, but then one of the guys working the furnaces turns to look and calls his name. “Creeds! Hey, get in here.” It’s Remus, tall and scarred and tattooed as ever, wearing a black t-shirt printed with stylized words so spiky the letters resemble a tangle of thorns. He waves Creeds further inside. 

“Goddamn, Creeds, don’t stand on the doorstep. The Death Eaters are getting weirder about new people hanging around,” Remus says, voice raised somewhat over the noise of the furnaces. He sets down whatever he’s doing and comes over to usher Creeds out of the storage space into the workroom proper. “Hey,” Creeds says awkwardly, and perches on a stool Remus pulls up for him. 

Remus says, “It’s good to see you, Creeds. I thought maybe you weren’t coming back.”  
“Yeah, I…kinda thought that too.”  
“Glad I was wrong. How are you?”  
“I’m good. Pretty good. I’m…” 

Creeds hesitates, realizing he has no idea what he wants to say. Everything he’d imagined saying on the L ride over completely leaves his mind. Remus is wearing a charm of the Hallowers’ symbol on a leather band around his wrist. Creeds swallows. The unpleasant thought occurs to him that he probably knows information about the aurors that it might be dangerous for Hallowers to know, and he’s not entirely sure which things are safe to say. Remus probably wouldn’t want to hurt him, but Creeds knows better than to question where the other alpha’s loyalties lie.

“I want to apologize,” Remus says, breaking the silence.  
Creeds looks at him. “For what?”

Remus drags another stool over and sits down across from Creeds. Remus says, “I should have known. I mean, maybe not, but I feel like I should have done more to help you.”  
“What, the obscurus? That wasn’t your fault.”  
“I know, but I could have helped you get out of there, out of her house,” Remus says urgently. 

Startled, Creeds says, “My sisters would have been in trouble without me.” Remus leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We could’ve figured something out. Doesn’t make a difference now, but damn, I’m really sorry.” He sounds so earnest that Creeds finds himself swallowing a knot in his throat. “Thanks,” he says quietly. 

To avoid looking Remus in the eye, Creeds looks at the constellation tattoos on Remus’s arms. The one on his right bicep looks like the big dipper, maybe. Mod used to be really into constellations. He can’t remember how to tell the big dipper and little dipper apart. He takes a breath to steady himself. Remus smells like evergreen and calm alpha and salt.

Creeds says hesitantly, “I’m not sure how to do this. Are you even allowed to tell me things now? I can’t tell anyone the locations but I think it’s fair to tell you I…have auror friends now.” 

“Oh yeah, I kinda figured,” Remus answers, and Creeds is surprised and relieved at how Remus doesn’t sound unhappy. Remus says, “They’re helping pay for you guys right? Emergency housing or something?”

“Yeah. My sisters and I moved, after everything. I wasn’t sure if you would want to talk to me.”  
“Why? Did you think I’d blame you for the cops showing up?”

Creeds shrugs, the guilt in his chest starting to unravel a bit. “For being nice with the aurors, I guess?”  
“What, did you marry the governor’s secretary?” Remus grins.

Creeds hesitates and feels his face getting warm. Dating the head of state law enforcement isn’t exactly the same thing, but that’s hardly better. When he doesn’t reply immediately, Remus says, “It’s raw luck about the aurors, but I can’t really blame you. We do what we gotta, am I right? And you still want to talk, huh?”

Creeds nods. Remus cocks his head, suddenly wary. He asks, “You’re not leading them to us now, are you?” Creeds recoils at the idea and holds up his hands defensively. “No, no! I would never do that. There isn’t anything illegal here anyway. Not much. That’s not why I’m here, I swear.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, really,” Remus says.  
“I know. I mean, thanks. For not kicking me out. But I guess you can’t really tell me much then, about how you’ve been?”

“You didn’t actually marry the governor’s secretary, did you?”  
“Um.”  
Remus’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Really? I was kidding.”  
“That’s not what…” Creeds flounders, and Remus takes pity on him.  
Remus says, “You’re in a different place now, it’s alright. You got to be careful around people like us. I’m not blaming you, really!” Remus adds, when Creeds starts trying to protest. 

Remus turns and looks around the studio. “We’ll just have to take precautions so we can talk. Hey Macduff!”

Remus waves over another one of the glassblowers, a wiry black woman who looks like she could probably lift Creeds with one arm. She has werewolf eyes like Remus, silvery when seen from the right angle. The furnaces roar low and constant, but from the narrow look she levels his way, Creeds wonders if she could hear what they were saying.

“Give us a hand, will you?” Remus says.  
“Who’s this?” the woman asks. Her voice is low and raspy.  
“Friend from the supply line,” Remus tells her. “Gonna trade an hour of silence with me.”

So that’s what Remus meant by precautions. The Hallowers have all sorts of ways of binding people’s voices. Creeds has never seen a temporary oath of silence, since they’re for people whose privacy is worth respecting, and carriers don’t count. He’s heard about them, though. The other werewolf looks down her nose at Creeds for a long moment. 

“You die if you break a sworn vow,” she says to him, almost challenging.  
“He knows,” Remus says mildly.  
Creeds nods. “I know,” he repeats quietly.

She lifts a shoulder dismissively, snaps her bubblegum, and holds out her hand. Remus holds out his hand to Creeds just above the woman’s open palm. After Creeds takes Remus’s hand, a thin band of flame rises up from her skin to wrap around their wrists. It doesn’t feel hot. It feels like magic. His skin tingles.

“Repeat after me,” Remus says. “I, Remus John Lupin, will hold secret all that is spoken between us in this next hour.” Creeds repeats the words with his own name. The syllables feel alive, like touching the tip of his tongue to a battery. More thin flames braid themselves around his and Remus’s hands, brilliantly orange. The flames burn brightly, the oath magic vibrating in the air, and Creeds tastes smoke as the fire vanishes beneath their skin.

“Thanks,” Remus says to the other werewolf. She nods dismissively and says, “Do a silencer. Don’t forget the scraps you have out.”  
“Sure thing.”

While they talk, Creeds sits back heavily on his stool, flexing his fingers. He feels like he can identify the connections between muscle and bone through his entire body, like he’s going to shake out of his skin. His magic feels wide awake. It takes him a moment to soothe it back into place, like in Transfiguration class, or after that time Percival plucked the flame off a candle wick and handed it to him. He doesn’t want his hands to start dissolving in here.

“Alright?” Remus asks, watching him curiously. Creeds nods. Remus grasps at the empty air with his left hand and twists. What feels like a ward settles over them, and the sounds of the shop lessen considerably. “Nobody can hear us now,” Remus says.

“Thank you, Remus. I know you didn’t have to do that, or any of this. It means a lot.”  
“You’re welcome. So.”

Creeds is reminded again how intimidating Remus might look to a stranger, for being a werewolf, for being poor, for how he dresses, for the low controlled way he speaks. He takes a deep breath—making the right choices seems to require doing that a lot—and says in a rush: “I’m dating Percival Graves.”

Remus blinks, taken aback. “What?”  
“The head auror. Of the Chicago law enforcement,” Creeds says anxiously.  
“I know who Percival Graves is. Wow. No wonder you looked so nervous. Shit.” 

Remus stares at him, a dark sweet shock of adrenaline bleeding into his scent. Creeds twists his hands together in his lap and resists the urge to hunch over. He can’t tell what Remus is thinking from the look on his face, except that it’s probably not good. “I’m sorry,” Creeds says in a small voice.

“What?” Remus says again, sounding distracted. “No, I mean, if you got to pick an auror aim for the top I guess.”  
“Do you hate me?”  
That question seems to surprise Remus in a different way, and he frowns. “No, I, no. I promise I don’t hate you. I like you. I’m just very surprised. Gimme a second.”

He looks at Creeds for a few more agonizingly long seconds, while Creeds sternly reminds himself that this conversation was his own idea, and that Remus hasn’t actually said anything angry. Some of the shock mellows out of Remus’s scent. Finally, Remus shakes his head and says, “Wow. Top of the food chain, huh? Damn. Is he nice to you? Talks nice to your sisters?”

Remus mostly sounds concerned, not angry. Creeds relaxes a bit. “Yes. He is. He does.”  
“And you like him?”

“I do. I like him a lot.” Creeds tries to think of how to explain Perce, how momentous it is to have normal, easy, comfortable conversations, how different it is to feel safe. Creeds says simply, “He apologizes for things and he listens to me.” Remus nods slowly. He asks, “Is that part of why you thought I wouldn’t want to talk to you?”

Creeds nods. Remus says, “I am glad you’re here, I’ve said that, right? I can’t say I’m a fan of aurors. They cause a lot of trouble for us. But they don’t make the laws and Graves is better than the last head auror. It could be a lot worse.” 

‘It could be a lot worse’ isn’t a resounding endorsement, but it’s better than what Creeds was expecting. Remus asks, “If you didn’t think I would talk to you, why did you come back?”  
“Because you’re my friend. I don’t want to pretend I never met you. The Hallowers did a lot for me. You did a lot for me and I don’t want to forget that.”

Remus smiles and relaxes the rest of the way. “It’s really good to see you, Creeds. I’m glad you did come back.”

After that, they have so much to talk about that Creeds wishes they had more than an hour promised. Remus tells him about the glass studio’s latest commission, a set of big green plates, and Remus goes off on a detailed five-minute explanation of the chemistry of the particular green color they’re using. They’ve started putting lighting charms directly into the glass, so some of the custom pieces glow on their own. From how Remus talks about it, Creeds gathers that this probably counts as one of those cool but questionably legal wandless magics MACUSA hasn’t noticed or regulated yet. They finished that nice big order from Grindelwald earlier that year. His public persona is associated with the studio now, so they’ve done pretty well getting new customers.

Creeds talks about the intro journalism course he’s taking over the summer at CSWI, plus as many remedial magic classes as he can fit. He talks about his sisters and tries not to talk about the aurors too much, except Perce, who he can’t avoid mentioning. He sometimes feels like he barely has time to breathe, but he enjoys the learning. He can’t even begin to imagine what kind of magical job he might want to do, but he’s been turning over some ideas from the journalism class: there are always more layers to people than you think there are, especially if you only think about a person in a certain context. The way the Hallowers view the world compared to the other people he’s met seems so different that he thinks there must be something missing. Remus makes a wry face at that.

“You’re a Hallower, aren’t you?” Creeds asks. Remus holds up his hand and turns it so Creeds can the Hallower symbol around his wrist. “It’s better to be in than out, especially these days,” Remus says. 

Remus tells Creeds that although he usually doesn’t do much besides look the other way at certain times, he’s been hearing rumors that sound worrying. Remus checks how much time they have left and sighs. He says, “Some of the wolves think the Death Eaters are up to something. You ever hear about them?”

“Not a lot,” Creeds replies; “They’re a separate gang, right? Kind of?”  
“Kind of. They’re supposed to obey Grindelwald the same as the rest of us, but their boss seems to have his own ideas. Dunno if your cop friends have noticed yet but some muggleborns have gone missing. I don’t know much about it except that the wolves don’t think it’s us.”

“Are the werewolves a separate group too?” Creeds asks.  
“They used to be. You might say the wolves in Chicago were organized before the Hallowers. Anyway,  
parentage doesn’t really matter to the Hallowers so the muggleborn stuff makes no sense.”

“Not sure the Lestranges agree with you,” Creeds murmurs.  
Remus twists his mouth in unwilling agreement. “Maybe not, but they’re not supposed to do anything about it under Hallower sanction. You’re either born with magic or you’re not, and that’s it. But you’re right, people don’t always care. We inherited all sorts of stupid problems from the Europeans and pureblood nonsense is one of them.” Remus shakes his head and leans his elbows on his knees. “Point is, territory boundaries might start to get hairy if this keeps up. Watch out in back alleys, alright? Get your boyfriend to teach you some stunners.”

Creeds thinks it might be better for people to keep out of his way, considering the obscurus, but that’s not what he wants to talk about. He checks the time on his phone; their hour is almost up. He asks, “Why does Grindelwald care about werewolves so much?”

Remus looks mildly surprised, but he smiles. “Heard something about him from the other side?” he asks.  
“I’ve heard him on the radio,” Creeds admits, and Remus grins. 

“That’s always fun. The charities are fine but getting shapeshifting is the big deal. We’re his now, in this city. Anyone who wants to be a shapeshifter has to swear in to the Hallowers and any werewolf with half a brain left wants to be a shapeshifter instead.”

“What do you mean, instead?”  
“Instead of being a werewolf, basically. Shapeshifting overrides everything else. It means we can control when we change shapes, even on the full moon.”

Creeds thinks about this for a minute. He then asks, “What really happens on the full moon? I’ve heard people say it makes you crazy, but I thought they were just prejudiced.” 

Remus actually laughs at that. “That’s nice of you Creeds. Oh no, it’s pretty bad. I barely had to deal with the change but there are people in the Hallowers that went their whole lives doing it, getting locked in basements and expanded closets by their families every full moon. They’d rather die than go back to that. That’s why shapeshifting is such a big deal. It’s not like being an animagus. Most people can’t just learn. But a wix that learns to shapeshift can just give it to other people. They do all the hard work and we can change to being a wolf whenever we want.”

Creeds feels so many things at once he hardly knows what to think. This makes the Hallowers sound like a truly radical welfare organization. It’s a little bit hard to imagine Remus turning into a monster, though he’s fully prepared to picture him as a wolf, having seen werewolves shapeshifted into wolf-form before. More appalling is the idea of hundreds of people being locked in closets every month. They probably do it to keep the wolf from hurting people, like something out of Hollywood, but instead Creeds pictures the hall of their old apartment, and Chastity crying on the other side of her bedroom door because Mary Lou locked her in there alone on her first heat. 

His horror must show on his face, because Remus asks with concern, “Hey, you still with me?”  
“Did they lock you in a closet?” Creeds asks, and a kind of sympathy passes over Remus’s face. “Not anymore,” he replies gently. Creeds does his best to shake off that idea and put it to the back of his mind. He suddenly has so many questions and little time left to ask them.

“When he, the shapeshifter that is, how do they make it so you can shapeshift?”  
“I can’t tell you that.”

Creeds thinks of Grindelwald on the radio arguing that werewolves as a whole deserve another chance, and of Grindelwald in person, in the warehouses after midnight, peering at Creeds with sharp-eyed curiosity. _‘What do you want to do with your life, Creeds? What do you dream?’_ He wishes agian, briefly, that it could have been Hallowers and not aurors that rescued him from the wreckage of his mother’s last apartment. There would still be people like the Lestranges, but maybe he misjudged the rest of the Hallowers. Maybe Grindelwald really would have helped his sisters.

“Is it. Remus, the original shapeshifter. It’s him, isn’t it?”  
Remus hesitates just enough that Creeds knows he must be right. Remus says, “I can’t tell you that either.”  
“Can’t or won’t?”  
Remus smiles. “Both. My family swore not to tell, my whole family. I was five.”  
“And now you have to be a Hallower?”  
“I chose to be a Hallower.”

Remus looks off into the distance, choosing his words slowly. “Grindelwald sees a lot of things the rest of the world doesn’t want to see. He’s the reason I was given shapeshifting. He’s how we all got it. I’m not saying he’s the original. I can’t say, one way or the other, I promised. But he knows the original. He’s the one who made this happen for us. And we’re not going to forget that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, in August: I’ll just try to write during school then I guess?  
> narrator: she did not, in fact, write during school
> 
> Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but I have technically been trying to finish writing this one conversation for months in my teeny lil bit of spare time. Gonna do my best to get most if not all of this finished during break so I can post consistently through next semester. Thanks for sticking with me! Your comments give me life <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though he’s occupied with thoughts about school and politics and the future, Creeds gets to figure out what all dating Percival entails. That turns out to include very personal and sometimes very serious conversations, plus, well, they have what Creeds mentally labels as a milestone sexual experience.
> 
> Chapter ten warnings: explicit sexual content

________________________________________________________________________

The months go by fast in Creeds’s new life. He takes another journalism course, business relations, psychology, and infinite writing classes. He interviews some people in the auror department for practice. He makes a short series of articles out of them that go in the CSWI student newspaper. He wins a CWSI journalism competition with a class assignment and starts writing community interest pieces for the school paper in earnest. The Chicago Doppelgänger, one of the wixen newspapers, re-runs his auror interviews from the CWSI paper. They pay him for them, too. He buys Modesty a new winter coat with the money, early in the fall so the nicest ones are on sale. She’s never been allowed a pretty color before; he lets her picks out the brightest red she can find. 

One of Creeds’s favorite teachers says if he keeps up doing so well in classes, she might be able to get him an internship with that paper. He starts a blog about a mix of magical and non-magical news. He refuses to take any interviews about being an obscurial, and MACUSA keeps most of the bloodthirsty tabloid writers away from him. Luckily he’s very rarely recognized, so it’s not like people regularly approach him in the street. That does happen once or twice and he’s ridiculously embarrassed by it every time. Tina and Queenie Goldstein help him navigate the more bizarre personal questions he gets, mostly by refusing to answer them. 

Mod tries increasingly creative ways to get into the digital wix magazines and websites, like the magician-only blogging platform Creeds uses. Mod has quickly learned more about the regular internet than both her siblings combined, and she’s frustrated that Creeds can get into the enchantment-protected websites and she can’t. Creeds is glad for those enchantments, since the magical news often includes mentions of Chicago’s many wix gangs. A potions smuggling group called the Felices are credited with several gruesome poisonings, for example, and the news websites give far more detail than Creeds thinks is strictly necessary.

Chastity doesn’t want to know any of this, and keeps Mod from getting into Creeds’s magic supplies. Chastity seems mildly alarmed by most of the magic in Creeds’s life, truth be told. She hates it when the neighbors’ kids set off magical firecrackers and thinks there are far too many pigeons in the halls for a respectable establishment, mail carriers or not. She nearly has a heart attack the first time she sees pukwudgies. 

Chastity will never be curious about magic, Creeds expects. She doesn’t get magic, can’t see the same things he and Mod can see. She does appreciate spells’ usefulness around the apartment and bravely tries to ask him about how his classes are going. He doesn’t think she would approve of the quirky witch tattoo artists or the werewolf glass blowers. She legitimately can’t see the ghosts at the nearest L stop, possibly out of determined ignorance.

Fortunately most of the magicians she’s met have all been perfectly wonderful. Perce has done a lot of work personally toward that, putting on his best professional auror attitude whenever she’s around. Creeds doesn’t know what it would be like if they’d been helped by the Hallowers instead of the aurors. He doesn’t flatter himself that his being magical would be enough to make life easy for Mod and Chas. On the other hand, it doesn’t matter how Gellert Grindelwald would have treated his muggle sisters. Grindelwald had offered to help and Creeds had told him no.

He listens to what interviews he can find with Grindelwald. He listens with a disorienting mix of fascination and guilt, like he’s betraying the aurors’ trust by being curious. He lays in bed with headphones plugged into his phone and listens to Grindelwald’s lightly accented voice in some politics podcast or other, criticizing all sorts of things: laws restricting werewolves, laws restricting goblins and pukwudgies, ‘dark’ healing practices being banned, and how magical children are constantly slipping through the school system’s cracks. Creeds texts Remus when he can and tries to figure out how to bring up his convoluted thoughts with Perce, or if he even should. Creeds doesn’t think any of the aurors are bad people, but at the same time, most of the laws Grindelwald criticizes are real, sound unfair, and are enforced by aurors.

Meanwhile, Perce and Creeds go on dates just like they said they would, and basically, it’s awesome. Perce is funny and nice and Creeds really can’t entirely wrap his mind around the idea that Percival wants to kiss him as much as he wants to be kissed. Perce is a good deal more comfortable with his body, and more experienced, and he seems extremely interested in convincing Creeds that he does, in fact, find Creeds attractive.

They have to meet at strange times, what with both of them working and Creeds going to class and trading off with Chastity to make sure Mod is doing her homework. Sometimes instead of lunch dates, they go to early dinners and take Mod with them. Mod immediately decided she likes Percival, and he keeps bribing her with effervescent caramels, so she’s unlikely to change her mind. Creeds is glad his sisters get along with Perce this well, since there’s no way he could seriously date anyone they didn’t like.

When Mod goes out with them, they usually eat Chastity’s casserole out of tupperware dishes in Millennium Park and people-watch. Perce casts privacy charms so Mod can asks questions about wixen without being overheard, while Creeds thinks really hard about whether he’s ready to kiss his boyfriend in public and in front of his sister. Mod has already given Perce permission to date him, much to Creeds’s embarrassed amusement, but kissing is still in the ‘gross’ category for her, and being visibly gay in public sounds terrifying, so Creeds watches them chat and smiles, and only kisses Perce in private.

That’s just fine, too, because kissing in private gives Creeds all sorts of opportunities to learn from Perce what they could never do in public. Creeds knew next to nothing about kissing at the start of their relationship, but he learns quickly, mostly because they get a lot of practice when their free time lines up. Perce is always mindful of how Creeds is new to this, so he makes sure they don’t proceed with anything unless Creeds is completely ready. Perce says they shouldn’t do anything that Creeds can’t make himself ask for out loud, which results in a lot of blushing and flailing on Creeds’s part. 

It’s little things Creeds has to learn, how to expect easy acceptance rather than unpredictable rejection. It takes Creeds a few months before he can bring himself to walk up behind Perce and nuzzle in for a kiss. Perce does this all the time, making sure Creeds knows he is there and hugging him, his front pressed against Creeds’s back. Perce is the shorter of the two of them, so he kisses Creeds on the neck or shoulder instead of being able to lean around and kiss Creeds on the cheek. 

“Can I touch your skin here?” Perce asks at one point, hugging him from behind, stroking his thumbs over Creeds’s sides in a way that gives Creeds goosebumps. “Yes, please,” Creeds says, and he catches his breath when Perce slides his hands under Creeds’s shirt to stroke the skin of his waist. Creeds turns around to face him. Perce keeps his hands on Creeds’s belly, gazing up with half-closed eyes. There’s a lot more bare skin contact in general after this instance.

They cuddle a lot more than Creeds would have expected, and he loves that. He finds out Perce likes to curl up with his head under Creeds’s chin. Perce likes having his head scratched like a cat. Depending on Perce’s state of mind, playing with his hair and rubbing his shoulders can be a reasonably reliable way for Creeds to get a lapful of spicy-smelling beta. It turns out to be incredibly erotic when Perce uses his mouth to trace the thestral tattoo on Creeds’s back; that’s enough to give Creeds fantastic dreams that leave him weak at the knees. While there’s no mistaking Perce’s arousal when they’re tangled together on the couch, they never go beyond what Creeds requests. 

In late May, they have what Creeds mentally labels as a milestone sexual experience. Creeds has been wanting to do more for a while, gradually wearing down the barrier between what sounds good in his head and what he can actually do without getting too nervous. His spring finals at CWSI are done, Mod isn’t yet out of school for the summer, and Creeds hasn’t yet picked up extra hours at the bakery. So it is that on their shared morning off, Perce takes Creeds to breakfast at a crowded little place downtown, and then takes him to see the Four Seasons. 

The Four Seasons is a mosaic, four wide panels standing fourteen feet tall, in a kind of outdoor courtyard people can walk by on their way to work. It’s cheerful and colorful, kind of like a watercolor Mod might bring home from school, except much larger and made of glass. It shows a blue and gold skyline, dozens of singing and dancing people and animals, a ferris wheel, and what might be two giant versions of the sun laid out like colorful flowers. 

It’s beautiful. Creeds spends nearly an hour walking around it, amazed, cataloguing all the people’s faces, leaning across the railing to look closely at the different colors of tiles. Perce offers him a little tourist leaflet about the imagery of the piece, how it represents specifically the city of Chicago. Creeds goes around and around it comparing the details in the leaflet to the real thing. 

“I had no idea this existed,” Creeds tells Perce with shining eyes. “It’s not graffiti, but I know you like street art,” Perce says with one of his hopeful smiles, and Creeds is again seriously tempted to kiss his boyfriend in public. He’s still not quite ready to do that so he hugs Perce tightly instead. 

“I love this. Thank you so much,” Creeds says. He can hear the smile in Perce’s voice when he answers. “I’m glad you like it. When do you have work?”  
“Not until after lunch.” 

Creeds backs out of the hug reluctantly, not wanting to linger too long where strangers might be watching. Perce squeezes his shoulder. “Where should we go next?” Perce asks. _I think I might be in love with you,_ Creeds thinks, glancing back at the mosaic with a smile. What he says is, “Take me back to the loft, Percival.”

Back at the loft it doesn’t take long for Creeds to end up shirtless with Perce kneeling over his lap. Their sweaters have been tossed to the opposite corner of the couch. Perce is wearing sweatpants that morning, which is the most immodest thing he could be wearing as far as Creeds can tell, especially once he’s aroused. Perce kisses him thoroughly, teasing with his tongue, coaxing more heat to gather low in Creeds’s belly. Every time Creeds moves his hips, Perce makes little purring sounds in the back of his throat. 

Creeds asks for and is given permission to take off Perce’s tank top. Perce shudders with his entire body when Creeds puts his hands on Perce’s back. He squirms in Creeds’s lap, which feels good enough to be dangerous, and dangerous for Perce too based on the tent in his pants. Creeds shapes his hands around Percival’s ribs and traces the arch of his back. “Mmm, god,” Perce groans, “I really want to touch you or myself.”

Creeds can get himself to say crazy things around Perce, so he says, “Could I watch you, maybe?” Perce looks surprised and delighted, blushing pink up his neck. “You wanna see me naked, Creeds?” he asks with a little grin. Creeds refuses to be teased so he says “Yes,” a little defiantly, and Perce knows him well enough he doesn’t mind.

Perce asks, “You wanna touch me, or…?”  
“I don’t know yet but I want to see you.”

Perce scoots off Creeds’s lap and starts pulling off his sweatpants and underwear, still standing well within arm’s reach. Creeds sucks in a breath between his teeth and Perce’s grin widens. This is Creeds’s first time seeing Perce entirely naked, and he’s not disappointed. Perce’s legs are strong and corded with muscle like the rest of him, and the fuzzy dark hair on his legs continues up the insides of his thighs. His erect cock is shorter and broader than Creeds’s. The smell of Perce’s arousal blooms in the roof of Creeds’s mouth, heady and sweet, like cinnamon and cloves. There can be absolutely no doubt he’s enjoying this.

“Your face right now is the best compliment I’ve had in a damn long time,” Perce says. “Oh,” Creeds says, looking back up at Perce’s face. He decides that if his boyfriend likes to be looked at, he is allowed to enjoy looking. Perce’s face is still flushed and he smiles and licks his lips when Creeds meets his eyes. Before he can change his mind not to say it, Creeds says, “I want to see you come.”

“Yeah? That sounds fun,” Perce says eagerly. He waves his hand so a footstool from the couch floats over to them. He sets it down and sits directly across from Creeds, so close their legs are touching. Perce rubs a hand casually up and down his midriff, and his cock twitches. He takes a hold of it and strokes just at the base a few times. He adjusts his balls and rubs them, making a low sound. Creeds feels scorched by each sounds Perce makes and by the spicy smell of him. Perce spreads his legs further so his knees press against the insides of Creeds’s thighs. He keeps looking at Creeds, and it feels like looking into the sun. 

“You sure about this?” Perce asks, hesitating in his movements. “Yes,” Creeds whispers. He swallows and forces himself to look up Perce’s body, at his face and his dark eyes. The loft is much warmer than the chill spring wind outside, so it’s not cold that makes Perce shiver. “Yes,” Creeds repeats, louder. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

Perce groans and begins moving his hand again. He strokes himself until his palm is slippery, circling his thumb and forefinger around the edge of his cockhead and twisting. Their knees are still touching. Creeds is pretty sure he would be allowed to touch, if he can work up the nerve. Knees seem a safe place to start, and he so desperately wants to touch Perce’s skin. When he hesitantly puts his hands on Perce’s knees, Perce smiles lazily. Perce wraps his hand around the base of his cock and moves his grip steadily up and down. “Mmm, yes,” he breathes, and angles his hips forward, encouraging Creeds to slide his hands farther. 

Creeds shakily strokes the inside of Perce’s thighs and tries not to rock back and forth in his chair. He couldn’t say why he bothers. It’s not like Perce could miss the shape of his arousal, not with his knees keeping Creeds’s legs spread open. Besides that, Creeds can smell himself, tea and apples and alpha. Perce smells like potent spices and the room smells like sex, and that realization makes Creeds flush hotter.

Perce leans forward with his hand still on his own cock and kisses him, licking into his mouth and purring. Creeds almost follows him when he sits back. He fiercely wants things he cannot even describe. Perce arches his back and leans on one hand, fisting himself more rapidly. “The look on your face,” he breathes. “Talk to me, Creeds.” 

“What should I say?” Creeds asks, and is surprised how close to a growl his own voice sounds.  
Perce swears fervently. “Anything, just talk t’me.”

“I don’t know. You look. You look so different from me,” Creeds begins, grasping for thoughts beyond wordless admiration. “I like the shape of you. There’s so much. I like looking at your body because it’s yours.” Creeds touches the wiry hair on Perce’s inner thighs, feather light. Perce swears again and leans back to bare his throat. “I do want to touch you, so much. You’re—beautiful, Percy,” Creeds says roughly. Perce groans and slows his hand. He bucks up into his own grip and squeezes a drop of precome from his slit. Creeds feels an answering throb in his own cock and resists the urge to grind down on the couch.

Perce moves his hand faster until the muscles of his stomach clench. “Oh, yes, please Perce,” Creeds rumbles, and Perce comes with an uneven exhale. His release pulses out of him and he rolls his hips up into his hand and strokes himself through it. Blood pounds in Creeds’s ears. A bead of milky come drips down Perce’s belly. 

“Having fun?” Perce hums, sitting up enough to look Creeds in the face. Creeds tries to answer and watch Perce’s hand moving at the same time, and his ‘yes’ comes out somewhere between a growl and a squeak. Perce sighs deeply and slows his strokes, working a final drop of white from his slit. 

“Mmm, I think I like having you watch,” Perce says, stretching the whole line of his body like he’s offering himself up to Creeds. His knees press just above Creeds’s own. He has come on his abdomen and his hand, and he waves the mess away with casual magic. Creeds is riveted. He feels like a bonfire ready to ignite. 

“You want some help with that?” Perce asks, letting his eyes linger on Creeds and the obvious bulge in his jeans. Perce puts a very warm hand on Creeds’s knee. The touch wouldn’t be sexual at all most of the time, but at the moment it sends a jolt straight to his groin.

Creeds wants so much. He wants to fling himself at Perce. He reaches for Perce’s face and kisses him desperately. Perce hums approvingly into his mouth and tangles a hand in his hair. Magical cleaning aside, Creeds can still smell sex, sex and beta and orange spicy sweetness. Creeds thinks he can even taste that Percival enjoyed it, which is ridiculous. You can’t taste people’s emotions. The only reasonable explanation is that Creeds must be going crazy because he’s so turned on. 

“Perce, please,” he says unevenly against Perce’s lips. “Please what?” Perce says, and licks over his mouth. Creeds kisses back hungrily because this, at least, he knows, but he wants so much else at once it’s hard to put his desires in order. 

He wants to be naked, wants Perce’s skin against his, wants to breathe Perce’s scent from his throat or between his legs. He still has enough shame to make him shy of stripping, but only barely. He’s not sure if he wants to pin Perce, like alphas are supposedly inclined to do, or maybe have Perce on top of him, a reassuring weight to provide warmth and pleasure. 

“Gonna tell me what you want?” Perce asks teasingly.  
“I want you, please, Percy.”  
”Oh, you want my help, huh?” Perce chuckles when Creeds growls at him.

Creeds leans back, looks Perce in the face, and undoes the button and zipper on his jeans. Part of him is mortified at himself, but the rest of him likes Perce and trusts him, and really, really wants to be touched. Perce puts a hand far up on Creeds’s leg so his thumb strokes his inner thigh. Perce makes a low sound when Creeds pulls his cock out of his underwear. “God, look at you,” Perce says. He strokes a fingertip along the underside and Creeds exhales sharply.

“Would you let me put this in my mouth?” Perce asks. He’s looking at Creeds’s cock and he sounds dead serious. Creeds squeaks because that’s incredible and disgusting, and he’s heard it’s supposed to feel good, but he’s definitely not ready for that. He buries his face in Perce’s neck, embarrassed and still very aroused. Perce’s is scent is so strong under his jaw that it derails Creeds’s thoughts for a few seconds. He nuzzles in and brushes his mouth over Perce’s skin. He wonders what it would taste and feel like to open his mouth and bite down. Perce brings up a hand to grip Creeds’s hair and Creeds realizes he has his mouth right above Perce’s gland. He hadn’t even noticed.

“’s that a no? Or you still want a hand?” Perce asks roughly. He turns his head so he can kiss Creeds’s shoulder with an open mouth.  
“Yes, please.”  
“Yes please to which part?”  
“Touch me, please,” Creeds pleads impatiently.  
“My pleasure.”

That’s a weird expression for agreeing to provide pleasure to someone else, Creeds thinks, and then Perce wraps a warm calloused hand around him and erases every word he knows from his brain. He can’t catch his breath at all. He hadn’t thought about how you can’t predict someone else’s movements, can’t know when they’ll speed up or slow down. He can’t possibly last long like this.

Perce’s hands are so warm and confident and he touches differently from how Creeds touches himself. Creeds had already left a damp spot on his underwear and Perce’s long firm strokes spread that wetness all over him. “You’re so nice to look at, Creeds, the way you move,” Perce murmurs, running his free hand over Creeds’s hip and abdomen. 

Perce takes one of Creeds’s hands in his clean hand. He kisses the knobbly scars on Creeds’s palm. “Gorgeous,” Perce says roughly, and Creeds shakes, because he can practically smell Perce’s honesty. He doesn’t understand it, can’t figure out how Perce can mean that, but he believes it. 

Perce kisses Creeds’s fingertips and sucks a wet kiss on the tip of Creeds’s thumb, moving his tongue in synchrony with his hand twisting over Creeds’s cockhead. He gives Creeds a look that very loudly repeats what he said about putting his mouth on Creeds’s cock. Creeds might be willing to get used to the idea. Perce sucks Creeds’s entire thumb into his mouth and traces his tongue on the fold of skin between thumb and forefinger. It sends a fresh wave of heat through Creeds’s belly and he bows under it, gasping.

Perce works him over until he comes, spilling on Perce’s hand and the couch and probably on the floor, if he were looking. It lasts so long and feels so good it almost hurts. Perce slows but doesn’t quite stop moving his hand until Creeds whines and grasps the base of his cock where his knot is starting to swell. He didn’t used to get the knot when he touched himself, not until after he presented. He’s still not completely sure what to do with it because it seems to hurt a little no matter what he tries. 

Perce scoots closer wraps his hand around as much of Creeds’s cock as he can, keeping the head covered in his slick palm. Creeds can’t cover himself entirely with one hand and refuses to loosen his arm wrapped around Perce, so he appreciates the extra help. His nerves feel like sparking wires, sending sputters of pleasure up his back. Perce works his other hand into Creeds’s underwear and cradles his balls. The extra heat and Perce’s steady grip ease the pounding pleasure-pain to a more bearable haziness.

Creeds leans his face into Perce’s shoulder and breathes, tasting spices on his tongue. He’d like to lean his entire body into Perce and have his cock against Perce’s naked skin, but he also might die of embarrassment if he let himself do that. He’d rather drift in shocked pleasure than try anything too exotic. 

Perce turns his head, nuzzles Creeds’s ear, and scoots fractionally closer. His knees nudge against the inside of Creeds’s thighs. Creeds is reminded, again, that Perce is entirely naked, while Creeds is now almost naked, and wrapped fairly close to Perce’s body. “Thank you,” Creeds says, his voice still low and rough. 

Perce hums contentedly. “You’re welcome. What do you think? Good?” In response Creeds buries his face in Perce’s neck and nods. Perce adjusts his posture to support more of Creeds’s weight, changing the angle of his embrace. He has slight callouses on the broad fingertips of his right hand. Creeds shivers pleasantly. “So good, yes,” he whispers. Perce purrs.

They stay like that until Creeds’s knot recedes. It seems to take a long time. Until then, the warmth of Perce’s hands feels good, and breathing his scent right from his neck feels good too. Perce tucks him back inside his underwear and lingers over kissing him. Creeds casts a small cleaning spell at the floor, not because Perce can’t, but because it’s one of the magics he can do well without a wand. Perce uses magic to clean Creeds’s skin. Though it’s not necessary, Creeds enjoys the feeling of Perce’s magic. 

“What about you? Was that okay?” Creeds finally asks, after they’re both wearing pants again and he’s lying with his head in Perce’s lap. Perce laughs helplessly. “God, you’re—I really like you, Creeds. Yeah, it was good. You did a great job.”

Creeds squirms, returning the smile. He feels shy again, after this outburst of licentiousness. He wants to look away, but likes Perce’s face, so he also wants to never look away. 

“I didn’t really do anything,” Creeds says.  
“Sure you did. You admired me.”  
“It’s not like that’s difficult,” Creeds mutters, flushing when Perce beams at him.  
“You thinking that is part of why I enjoy you doing it.”

Creeds covers his face with his hands, and Perce laughs happily, combing his fingers through Creeds’s hair. He’s been letting his hair grow out, and feeling Perce’s fingers gently tugging his hair is a convincing reason not to cut it short. He smiles between his fingers. 

Then he is struck by an intrusive thought, perhaps because he is a magnet for trouble like Chastity has always said. As is typical of intrusive thoughts, the thought bothers him thoroughly in an instant. He pulls his hands away from his face. “Hey Perce? I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he says.

“Yeah?”  
“This is nothing to do with anything we just did,” he clarifies, and then begins, “I went and saw a friend, from before.”

Creeds pauses, and Perce looks down at him. Perce asks, “Is this one of those friends you don’t like to talk about?” Creeds opens his mouth and can’t think of how to answer. He hadn’t realized Perce had noticed. He hadn’t intended to drop hints. What can he say? What should he say?

But Perce shakes his head and says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. You were saying?”  
“…it’s about werewolves.”

Perce blinks. Creeds steels himself. He says, “I’ve met werewolves at my friend’s place. They have a lot of trouble with aurors. And you know how people talk at the MLE.” Creeds hesitates again, and Perce replies, cautiously apologetic: “There are a lot of challenges about how the department interacts with werewolves.”

Perce’s lap is warm and comfortable, and Creeds trusts him. He reminds himself of this, because it’s true. Creeds takes a deep breath. “I’ve been looking at the laws and a lot of them don’t make any sense. Like, any werewolf can be charged with a felony for being unmedicated and going in public. Almost nobody will hire an unmedicated werewolf, but if they can’t work they can’t afford wolfsbane, and then they get arrested pretty much whenever they get in anyone’s way.”

Perce seems to sense Creeds isn’t done with his thought, and does not interrupt. He continues petting Creeds’s hair, which feels nice and helps him hang on to feeling calm. Creeds is still nervous about this conversation, but less than he’d imagined when he played out various versions of it in his head. 

Creeds says, “You fixed a lot of things about the Chicago aurors, and I know you’re a good man. So why did you fix all the other problems, but not that one?” He really hopes there is a reasonable explanation for why a city with Perce in charge of its MLE still has so many conflicts between aurors and werewolves. 

“The department has changed drastically since I first started, I didn’t fix all of our problems by a long shot,” Perce replies. “One thing about the wolfsbane noncompliance laws, first. They’re trying to get those changed, but it’s a federal law. There’s nothing I can do there except modify how we enforce it.”

“Do any of the werewolf civil rights groups help people afford wolfsbane?”  
“Some of them do. Technically we can’t recommend any of the advocate groups to people that are arrested because all the groups in Chicago are politically affiliated.”

Creeds shifts uncomfortably. Perce is frowning, but he doesn’t seem upset. It’s so hard to keep track of Perce, here, and now, and not Mary Lou and violent disapproval. Looking at Perce’s face helps, and reminding himself that it’s hard strangely also helps. Perce still smells like relaxed sensuality, tangible and grounding. Creeds asks, “How is it fair to punish people for an illness they can’t afford to treat?”

“It’s not. An unmedicated werewolf this is a threat to public safety a few days a month and the rest of the time they’re minority victims of oppression. This kind of thing is why I’m an auror and not a politician, because the politics gets even messier. I have some freedom on how to handle the people we deal with directly, and I get some leeway on internal MLE policy for the city and state, but aurors don’t write laws or judge cases.”

“So you pick who enforces the laws, but you still arrest people even when the laws are unfair?” Creeds asks in a small voice. He doesn’t want to be difficult, but he does have that talent, and can’t think of any other way to ask this question. 

“For the most part,” Perce says reluctantly. Perce’s eyebrows go through several different frowns. He scrubs a hand through his hair, which makes it stick up a little in front, and his expression settles on something like a worried basset hound puppy. He says earnestly, “Listen, Creeds, I agree with you about a lot of this stuff being a mess. Please don’t quote me on that in an article or anything. You know I can’t say everything I think publicly, right?”

“I know. I won’t. I just want to understand,” Creeds says, shifting in Perce’s lap. It feels safe to be like his, his head on Perce’s warm thighs and Perce still touching his hair. Perce says, “I know werewolves aren’t all bad people. I really do. At some point it isn’t about the werewolves anymore. It’s about politics and what people believe, not what’s true.”

“But they’re people,” Creeds protests. He feels heartened by Perce’s touch. “How can it not be about them? It just seems like you’ve done so much, from what all the articles say. They make it sound like you do have a lot of influence. Can you really not do anything about the laws? Just don’t arrest people who don’t deserve it?”

“We already try not to arrest people for stupid reasons. This isn’t a dictatorship, and I’m not qualified to fix every unfair law anyway. I would rather keep some influence and do my best with what I have, and I’ve got my hands full with keeping what we have from falling apart.”

Perce sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and stares off into space before continuing. “When I started at the MLE…it was bad. There’s a reason almost nobody in the department is much older than I am. The corruption was astounding. We had to clean it out and almost everyone at the senior level was dirty. It’s really a coincidence of timing that I’m superintendent. I am glad I’ve gotten to help, but it was crazy at the beginning. Moody is one of the only senior aurors we have left, and we had to ask him out of retirement, in fact.”

Perce sighs again and scratches lightly on Creeds’s scalp. He seems to be thinking, so Creeds waits. 

“I can tell you more about it sometime if you’re interested. We got a lot of help from outside. MACUSA used to rely a lot more on civilian involvement, like how Queenie consults for us. There’s a kind of vigilante group Moody knew about and one of the Hogwarts teachers. Anyway, everyone that was taking bribes and passing on information got fired if they weren’t smart enough to quit first. The current version of the MLE was practically rebuilt from the ground up in the last five years.”

Creeds shifts in Perce’s lap. “Percy? If the aurors were corrupt who was influencing them?”  
“Gangs, mostly. Some old families with little rackets. People with money paying rats to chew at us. Felixers, some smalltime smugglers, the Hallowers especially. A lot of werewolves are in the Hallowers, you know. Doesn’t exactly help their case. I’d love to know what Grindelwald has on them.”

“Grindelwald?” Creeds repeats, startled and unaccountably flustered. 

“Don’t tell anyone outside the department I said that,” Perce says, “since we can’t formally accuse him of anything. Insufficient evidence. Have you heard of him yet?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Creeds says, a violent flush rising in his cheeks. “Clever bastard,” Perce says, in an exasperated, almost admiring tone of voice Creeds has only overheard him use a few times before, usually when criticizing someone (Tina) for doing doing something stupid and reckless (and it had worked). Excellent dating relationship with Perce notwithstanding, Creeds has retained an embarrassing, squirmy crush on Grindelwald. His contact with Grindelwald has been reduced to a lilting accented voice on the radio, but Creeds remembers the omega’s strange affectionate questions and gentle controlling hands and his electric presence. 

Perce seems to have noticed none of this, which almost certainly means he’s tactfully ignoring it. Lord only knows what he thinks Creeds is thinking. Creeds is very glad Perce cannot read minds like Queenie.

“Anyway, back on the werewolves,” Perce says. “All I can do is put in a word about what I see on the street. And to be perfectly honest, Creeds, what I see on the streets with werewolves involved doesn’t often make them look good. I’m not saying it’s fair. There probably is some bias to it. They haven’t been given a lot of help and they tend to end up in bad situations.”

Creeds nods, turning his head so Perce’s fingers scratch behind his ear. It feels nice, and puts his face almost flush to Perce’s bare belly. Voice slightly muffled, he says, “If nobody will hire them and they’re all poor, it’s not all that surprising if a lot of them end up criminals. How else are they supposed to eat?”

“I don’t know. If you’ve got a better suggestion I’d like to hear it.”  
Perce sounds like he really would take suggestions, unlike Mary Lou, who would have only said such a thing as a threat. “Okay. I think I’d like to stop talking now.” He inhales deeply, enjoying the orangey, musky smell of Perce’s skin. 

“Alright. You’re really something else, you know,” Perce says affectionately.  
“I like you.”  
“I like you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've only been dating a few months so Creeds is like I cAN'T SAY IT YET
> 
> The changing use of Perce/Percival is intentional. Also I hope we can all agree that wizarding America would absolutely have a legal system biased against werewolves and other things they consider subhuman. This topic will be revisited again several times in upcoming chapters and I hope I can do a tiny bit of justice to the conundrum of bias and responsibility in legal and policing systems. 
> 
> On there being pigeons all over the halls of Creeds’s apartment complex: using pigeons instead of owls for wix mail in big cities is a nice bit of fanon that I’ve read in several other fics. Not sure who came up with that idea first, but ily.
> 
> [Yell at me on tumblr @tiny-trashcan or twitter @TrashcanTiny]


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter eleven warnings: explicit sexual content, uhh mild conversation about abuse recovery being stressful.

________________________________________________________________________

So far, dating Perce seems like one of the best decisions of Creeds’s life. Perce wants to hear everything about Creeds’s life that Creeds is willing to share. He asks about Creeds and Chastity’s work schedules and remembers the nights that neither of them is likely to have time to make dinner. He still doesn’t entirely approve of graffiti but he listens when Creeds explains how graffiti accounts for some of his favorite art. He does more than listen: he asks questions and listens to those answers too. He remembers at least half of what Creeds says about Mod and Chastity as well, which is astonishing considering he sometimes thinks they’re the only thing he talks about.

They read books together, the kinds of books Creeds would never be able to slog through without help and aren't in any of his classes. They read about the history of "dark magic," which means extremely different things if you pick a book about the Americas or Africa instead of Europe. They read some of Perce’s favorite books from school and talk about history of magic in different cultures. Perce likes to get off on long tangents about tiny technical details. Some of these magics truly are awful, and some are bizarre but inspired, and some are both.

Creeds is curious about the history of lycanthropy, too, so they read about that. He doesn’t specifically tell Perce that he’d known his werewolf friends were magic before the obscurus incident, but Perce seems to realize this anyway. It would be difficult not to know any of them in Chicago these days, he says, and asks for no further details.

They practice charms together, sometimes in the Barebone apartment kitchen with Mod watching, and sometimes downstairs in the loft. The aurors in the loft offer boisterous commentary until Creeds gets nervous, at which point Perce will make a perfectly timed remark to shut them up. Creeds suspects he knows enough about his aurors that he could be a lot more harsh, but they all know he won’t do that.

What a concept, that you can have power to do harm and not use it. It makes Creeds think his mother never really had as much power as she thought, or she would have been more like Perce. He does his best to shove her out of the way, to the back corner of his thoughts. Late at night when they're alone, he confesses to Perce that he's afraid she will never really go away, that he will be haunted by her voice forever. "We'll have to drown her out, give you good things to hear instead," Perce murmurs.

Practicing charms with Perce does change how he thinks about his own magic, that and the work with his therapist. The obscurus never comes out the way it did before and it never hurts so badly. It mostly shows up as an unsettling visitor when Creeds is having trouble controlling his magic. Mostly he does well, but sometimes when he's trying something new his magic barely responds, and other times comes out disproportionately strong. He tries to clamp down and force it to work and that only ever makes it worse and makes the ink-black obscurus ooze out of his fingertips.

Creeds feels exhausted and upset when he can’t get his magic to work right, and accepts the obscurus as just another ugly scar. He says this to Perce at some point, not expecting how Perce will look as though he's just been stabbed. “You aren’t ugly. Nothing about you as a person is ugly,” Perce says fervently, stowing his wand in its holster to grasp Creeds with both hands. “I know,” Creeds says, looking at the floor, “It’s just hard to believe it when I can’t do anything right.”

Perce makes another wounded noise and pulls Creeds in for a hug. Creeds goes gladly, hunching down into the bad posture he’s spent so much effort unlearning, ducking down so he can rest his forehead on Perce’s shoulder. “What if I never get better at this?” He asks. “What if I just actually suck at magic and I don’t belong here?”

“You do belong here,” Perce says firmly, rubbing circles on Creeds’s back. “Nobody is good at magic without practice. That’s what these loft practice spaces are for.” He smells like cedar and ozone and oranges and Creeds holds on to him like a lifeline. “Every time I think I have it right, something like this happens,” he says, his voice wobbly. There is a huge misshapen scorch mark on the floor, and Percival either can’t get it off or hasn’t tried very hard yet. Creeds had been trying to freeze water in an ice cube tray, and he’s not sure what he did, but it definitely wasn’t make ice.

Perce’s scent retains a sympathetic bitter edge of cedar even as he continues to rub Creeds’s back. He says, “Everyone makes weird mistakes like this even when they have way more practice than you. Come on, let’s take a break.” Creeds swallows and shudders, holding on. Perce thinks he belongs. Most of the time, Creeds can even believe it. Today’s one of the days he needs to hear it again, just in case. He takes a deep breath.

“Why do you even bother, Percival? Don’t you have more important things...than wasting time on me?” He can feel the obscurus pooling like smoke around his hands. He lets go of Perce and tries to shake it off impatiently, tasting smoke and fighting back tears. Perce takes hold of his hands and holds them still, ignoring the black smoke that coils around his wrists.

“You are not a waste of time,” Perce says patiently, holding his hands. Creeds can’t look at him, but Perce keeps talking. “I’m so upset for you that people made you think that about yourself, ever. It’s not right. That was awful of your mother and everyone else involved. You’re not a waste of time, you hear me?”

“Okay…” Creeds says, still looking down.  
“You’re one of the most generous people I’ve ever met, and you are learning magic, and you ask great questions, things I’d never thought about.” Perce lets go of one of Creeds’s hands and cradles his face. Creeds leans into the touch, a few tears spilling down his cheeks. Perce continues gently, “You’re a good person and a good friend and we’re so lucky to have you exist in the world. We want you here. I want you here.”

It seems almost impossible, but it’s been months on and off like this. Perce never runs, never hides, never shows any impatience with Creeds’s bad days. Against the odds, Creeds really does believe Perce means what he says. He’s still going to feel sad. It helps, though, that Perce is still there. “Thanks,” Creeds croaks, managing to glance up and give Perce a watery smile. The obscurus smoke has melted away back into his skin.

Perce kisses the scarred palms of Creeds’s hands and returns the smile. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asks. Creeds takes a steadying breath, holds it, and lets it out.

“Tell me about work,” he says. Perce hums thoughtfully, idly stroking Creeds’s wrists with his thumbs, still loosely holding both his hands. “Ok,” he says lightly, “did I tell you about the kids with Fizzing Whizbees at O’hare? Abernathy was so pissed.”

“There’s a magic section of the airport?” Creeds asks, sniffing. Perce conjures a handkerchief out of thin air with an absent gesture and offers it for Creeds to blow his nose. “There is a magic section of the airport,” he says, “but not the part where they were! This is a candy that makes people levitate, right, so—“

Perce tells Creeds little anecdotes from the auror offices until he’s able to smile and laugh again, and takes him out for Thai food, and rides the L home with him instead of apparating or taking the floo so they can watch the evening lights. He remembered what time Chastity’s shift started and had made sure they would be back in time for Creeds to say hi to his sister before work. He absolutely has to kiss Perce when Perce tells him he remembers these things.

“You belong here,” Perce whispers in his ear as they hug goodbye that night. “Thank you,” Creeds whispers back. _I think I love you,_ he says in his mind.

________________________________________________________________________

Creeds’s second rut is uncomfortable, but a lot better than the first. It shows up in the middle of July, and thankfully Perce can tell it’s coming, since Creeds himself scarcely knows what to expect. The cycle is exhausting but far more enjoyable under the influence of Perce's attentiveness and his citrusy beta scent. Perce takes off work in advance. He says he can't do as much for not being omega, but Creeds doesn't care. Perce's mouth and hands are warm and gentle and he smells wonderful. Creeds stays at Perce’s apartment for the three days it lasts, three days of glorious golden delirium.

The irrational loneliness Creeds remembers from his first rut now translates into him touching as much of Perce’s bare skin as he can physically manage at once. He rests his face in the curve of Perce’s throat, so close he has to keep turning his head so he can breathe. He winds his long arms and legs around Perce’s solid form like a pretzel. Far from being bothered by this, Perce uses it as an excuse to hardly let Creeds out of arm's reach the entire time. It probably looks ridiculous, but Creeds firmly tells himself he doesn't care. It helps that Perce is ever complimentary about Creeds's body and humorously affronted that Creeds would care what they would look like to someone outside the bedroom. ("As far as I know, I invited nobody in here except you, so let’s leave all those other people out of it,” Perce says with a smile.)

Creeds had already discovered that Perce enjoys blowing him, really enthusiastically enjoys it, and the rut seems to push Perce’s enthusiasm to another level. He swallows Creeds all the way down without choking, which can't be from anything but years of practice. Creeds is big and unable to stop his hips thrusting into Perce’s mouth, and Perce just moans appreciatively. Perce takes him like that over and over until his voice is hoarse, and then he murmurs filthy delicious praises against Creeds’s skin while Creeds grinds to orgasm between Perce's clenched thighs. 

Creeds apologizes for not doing more for Perce. He’s so easily distracted by Perce’s enthusiasm and his own body that he gets twice as much attention as he gives. Perce shushes him, saying he appreciates the concern but he's enjoying the process quite well enough. Being this close to an alpha or omega in season temporarily improves a beta’s stamina, Perce explains matter-of-factly while doing something wickedly pleasurable to Creeds’s balls with both hands and grinding himself against the bed. 

Perce smells like spices when he's really pleased, especially cloves. Creeds never smelled cloves before he started working at Kowalski’s, and now the smell will remind him of Perce. There's an extra tangy sweetness to Perce’s scent when he’s been aroused for a long time, Creeds discovers, so when Perce he says he's enjoying himself, Creeds believes it. 

It turns out that when Creeds has help during a rut, the room smells more like an apple orchard then a warehouse fire. Combined with their base scents of oranges and tea, Perce laughingly says his upstairs smells like an exotic imports store. 

Perce lets Creeds top and pin him, after apparently stretching himself open in the shower. Creeds is unbelievably aroused by the mental image of that. He struggles to string the words together to ask to be allowed to watch next time. Perce laughs at him affectionately and says something teasing while lining himself up. Creeds can barely believe he’s able to hold himself steady while pressing inside, but somehow he does. Perce is tighter than Creeds expected but Perce isn’t worried, keeping his body pliant and encouraging Creeds when he’s ready for more. 

It’s not their first time like this, though nothing seems to work the same during a rut. Perce praises Creeds endlessly for being gentle. Creeds feels like a bumbling teenager who has no idea what he's doing, but appreciates Perce’s encouragement so much it’s like a physical weight in his chest. He likes having Perce on his back, and being able to make such a level-headed man gasp. He likes that Perce wants him there, too, wants to offer him this.

“Most alphas are intimidated by me,” Perce breathes, scrambling for grip on Creeds’s shoulders. “They assume I wouldn’t like doing this.” He holds Creeds tight against him, chest to chest, skin sliding against skin. They kiss messily, a clash of lips and tongues and teeth.

“I like that you're intimidating,” Creeds growls. “I like everything about you. Can I hold you still?” Perce nods and moans encouragingly. He bares his throat to Creeds’s searching mouth. Perce almost never bites, not even a little bit, but he sighs when Creeds nips and sucks a mark on the side of his neck. It’s a dangerous, heady thing, to kiss so close to Perce’s gland, to imagine keeping him, them keeping each other. Creeds would never do such a thing when they’re both so distracted, but he wants, oh, he wants so much. 

“Angle,” Perce gasps, rocking back in time with Creeds’s thrusts.“Tilt—your hips—up—forward, a bit—like that, yes, _yes—“_

"You smell like apples, Creeds," Modesty says when she hugs him when he gets home. “Sorry,” Creeds says to Chastity, who looks like she might combust from embarrassment. “Are you okay?” she asks bravely. “Did you eat enough this time?” 

Creeds smiles gratefully. “Yeah I did. It was fine. Good. A lot better than last time.”

Creeds gets permission to paint another mural on Perce’s wall. This time, it’ll be inside, one of the huge blank windowless sections of the spacious downstairs of the loft. ‘Gaining permission’ is a misleading way of describing what happened. The real process involved Perce leaning distractingly on Creeds’s shoulder and making admiring comments about the creatures sketched in the margins of Creeds’s homework. The teachers don’t punish him for not sitting still, so while he listens, he also draws, lions and wolves and chimeras and serpents and dragons. 

Perce had admired those messy little drawings with no ulterior motive, the way he seems to like everything else about Creeds. Real dragons are lovely and terrifying, so he chooses dragons for Perce’s wall. When practicing magic, he sometimes feels lovely and dangerous himself, so that seems a fitting sort of gift for Perce, who is undoubtedly also both of those things.

Creeds starts the mural late on a Tuesday late in August. He doesn't have an early work shift the next day, and Perce has Wednesday off too that week, so they have mutually agreed to spend the evening together. Perce kicked everyone else out of the downstairs and the two of them moved all the furniture and diagrams away from the biggest wall. Creeds had moved most of the heavy stuff by himself with magic. Perce made all the maps and open files fold themselves into origami animals which flapped and skittered out of the way. 

Now Creeds has a huge ladder up and sketches the beginnings of the mural with spray paint. Perce sprawls in a folding chair in the middle of the cleared floor, nursing a beer and watching. He changed out of his nice work clothes into old sweatpants and an auror undershirt, with the Chicago MACUSA symbol on the front. Creeds recognizes this undershirt as the one enchanted to have series of bad puns write themselves in people’s handwriting on the back. Perce has his shoulders back and his feet wide apart, hips splayed wide. Creeds keeps his eyes firmly on the border he’s outlining so he’s not distracted by Perce’s body. Perce is always a tiny bit distracting and Creeds hopes he never gets over it.

Perce stands up and wanders over. Creeds isn’t on the ladder at the moment, sketching the mural’s lowest parts. Perce is a warm presence at his back. “Looks good so far,” Perce says. “It doesn’t look like anything yet,” Creeds says. Perce’s elbow brushes his side. “It’s a design right? The pattern is symmetrical. You’re already outside the territory of what I’d be able to do. I still can’t figure out how you get it to go on in straight lines.”

“Just practice,” Creeds says absently, going over one of the lines again. “I mean, thanks.” 

Perce touches his shoulder and goes back to his chair. Creeds steps back and looks over the sketch, twenty feet wide, white on bare concrete. A pair of dragons coils over and under and around each other. He adds a few scales to one of their outlined faces. He chooses several blues and climbs up the ladder to start painting the sky.

“Hey Perce.”  
“Hm.”  
“Can I ask you a weird question?”  
“Of course.”

Creeds switches to a slightly different color of blue. “Some of the alphas at the station were talking about betas,” he begins. Perce shifts in the chair behind him. “Ah.”

“Do I...I'm not even sure how to ask this. We're serious, aren't we? I mean, I am really interested in you, you know that right?” Creeds edges the sketched dragons in more blue. Perce replies, “I would hope you're interested in me, with all the time we spend together. And yes, I think we are serious, but maybe we ought to talk about what that means, in a second. What did the aurors say that upset you?”

“They were talking about dating and sleeping with betas, but only as if the betas were some sort of consolation prize. I don’t want you to think I think of you like that. I really—“ Creeds sets down his paint and turns around. Perce searches his face expectantly. Creeds bites the inside of his cheek, makes himself stop biting his cheek, and continues. “I don’t know if I love you quite yet, but I really like you and respect you, and I would never talk about you like that. Or think that. You’re not…I don’t wish you were anything besides a beta. I like you the way you are. That’s all.” 

Perce’s eyebrows have been climbing higher with every word, and he now looks awestruck. “Thank you, Credence,” he says reverently. Creeds’s face burns, and his chest feels full of warmth, and he does not look away. Perce sets his beer on the floor by his feet and stands to walk over to him.

“I’ve got to kiss you when you talk like that,” Perce says, and stands up on tiptoe to wrap his arms around Creeds’s neck. They kiss gently, Perce tilting his head back and leaning his weight into Creeds. “Stand up straight,” he mumbles between kisses, “I like that you're taller than me.”

“I’m too tall,” Creeds sighs. Perce slips back down to stand at his normal height. He says, “Whoever told you that does not appreciate your better qualities.” Creeds asks mildly, “Is being tall one of my better qualities?” Perce kisses his cheek. “Being brave is one of your better qualities. But back to what you were saying about our relationship,” Perce continues, resuming his seat and reclaiming his beer. “What are you thinking when you say we’re serious?” 

Creeds turns back to the wall and considers his paint. He hasn’t decided yet whether the blue behind the dragons ought to be water or sky. Both, maybe. He selects a can of blue and considers what to say while he shakes the paint. “Neither of us is dating anyone else, right?” he asks. “That’s supposed to be an important thing, isn’t it? Being exclusive?” 

“I’m not dating anyone else,” Perce confirms, as Creeds was fairly sure he would. “I haven’t dated much in the last few years. You’re just special.” Creeds smiles to himself and Perce asks, “You’d never dated anyone before, right?”

“Not really,” Creeds says.  
“Does that bother you?” Perce asks. “Do you want to have dated other people?”  
“Not really,” Creeds says again. He sketches vague shapes around the dragons in layers of soft blue. “Do you think I ought to date other people? I don’t want to, but if you really thought I should…”

“Not if you’re happy,” Perce says, and Creeds can hear the shrug in his tone of voice. “I dunno. I dated a lot in school and my first few years after the academy. I guess some people do date only one person and that’s who they marry, so it can work.” Creeds turns a swirl of blue paint into the vague shape of a cloud, or maybe part of a reef. Perce shifts behind him. It’s incredible to Creeds be so aware of someone else’s body in an enjoyable way. 

Perce says, “That reminds me, I’ve been wanting to say something to you, just to make sure we’re on the same page. Because I was involved in setting you and your sisters up after the whole thing last year, well, I want to make sure you aren’t doing anything because you feel obligated. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe any of us.” Creeds looks over his shoulder. Perce has his hands in his pockets and watches Creeds with an earnest expression that floods Creeds’s chest with affection.

“I kind of do owe you. You and Tina and a lot of the others have been a big help to me. Let me finish,” Creeds insists, because Perce starts to say something that sounds worried. “I do owe you, but friends owe each other without keeping track. That’s the point of good friends. I know all about being guilted into things, and I’m done with that. I’m not making any relationship choices because of what someone makes me do. I’m here for you and me. I like what we have and I want to stay with you and learn more about you. I want to make you happy because that makes me happy, and because you do the same for me. You’re such a good person and a good influence on me and my entire family too, but you’d be like that even if I wasn’t dating you. You’re generous like that. And I’m talking a lot, sorry. I mean, thanks for listening?”

Perce is wide-eyed by the time Creeds finishes speaking. “I love you too,” Perce says softly, and smiles like Creeds just gave him the best gift ever. Creeds feels his heart give a funny leap.  
“Oh. You do?”  
Perce bites his lip, still smiling. “Too much?” he asks, and Creeds shakes his head vigorously.  
Creeds asks, “Can I have a hug?” and Perce beams at him.  
“Definitely.”

When Perce draws back from the hug, he keeps one hand on Creeds’s shoulder. “You’re welcome for listening. You don’t need to apologize. I am glad you trust me enough to say all this. You remember how hard it was for us to talk to you when we first met?” 

Creeds does remember, and his smile warms his voice when he answers. “I couldn’t talk to anyone hardly, especially with other alphas in the room. They still make me nervous sometimes, if it’s all alphas in the room and no betas. Except the Golsteins. Thank god for Tina.”

“Thank god for Tina,” Perce agrees, stepping back with a smile. “I should give her another pay raise.”  
“She’ll probably argue with you about it,” Creeds grins. Perce says, “There are times when I dislike gender roles, but being able to calm down fussy alphas isn’t bad. Not if it’s Tina, anyway. I have limited patience for calming down Abernathy and Dawlish.”

“Back to the point,” Perce clears his throat and continues, “sounds like you prepared more for this conversation than I have, but I’ll give it a shot…I really like you. You’re kind and work hard and you’re incredibly brave about making friends and trusting anyone after how life has treated you. I like spending time with you, I like having you around, and I want to keep having you around.”

Perce smiles, a little shyly. Creeds beams back at him. “Thanks,” Creeds whispers. Perce leans his forehead up against Creeds’s. “You’re welcome,” Perce says. “I have more I can say if I think about it. So. I like the direction we’re going and I want to do what it takes to keep heading in that direction. How about you?”

“I like the direction we’re going, too,” Creeds says softly, still beaming. “That said, we're not mated,” Perce continues, apparently on a sudden thought. “We’re not married. If we don't end up together long term, I can easily see you attracting a lot of omegas. Or even if we do stay together, I can still imagine that happening with some omega.” 

He cups Creeds’s face between his hands, and Creeds’s heart skips. Perce says, “You are kind, generous, attractive, and a striking alpha already. I can't wait to see the kind of magic you'll be doing in five years, or this time next year even.” Perce’s heartfelt expression flickers into amusement. “Not that I want you to date anyone else,” he adds, and for some reason this makes Creeds laugh. 

“Oh good!” he says, hugging Perce around the middle and then pushing him back towards his chair. “I’ve got to stop saying things that sound like I’m hinting we break up,” Perce says with a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sit down, boyfriend,” Creeds orders jokingly, and Perce does, relaxing into a broader smile. Creeds picks up his paints and adds to the cloud-reef with light blue. He gets the blue to mix into a kind of cerulean he’s never gotten before. He loves working magic on the paint, the colors he can coax out of it now. He shakes up a can of white, a lovely bright white from Queenie, the only color he owns he refuses to magically modify. He considers the wall and dragons and clouds, and sets the white back down again.

“Are you saying you'd be okay with making a pack, if we stay together?” he asks, picking up another pale blue. Perce considers his question. “If both of us were comfortable and the right person came along, yes, I would consider it,” he says. “But we aren't there right now.”

“Yeah,” Creeds says, “I don’t know if I’m ready to think about marriage or packs yet in general.”  
Perce says, “I agree. It’s been a while since I dated anyone with this much intentional effort. We've not even known each other for a year. And I'm a lot older than you are, and you’re going to be in school for a while yet. That's not a bad thing but it does make us different from most people.”

“Alpha and beta guys,” Creeds says, after a moment of thought. “That’s a bit different too, isn’t it?”   
Perce thinks about that. “Maybe,” he says, “but that doesn’t bother me. I’m more interested in dating you than worrying what people will think about our sex life.”

"I'm interested in what we think about our sex life," Creeds says over his shoulder. "And dating you of course." He adds diamonds of bright blue and purple and the dragon suddenly has a distinctly identifiable expression. “Do you want to talk about our sex life?” Perce asks, amused.

“Maybe.” Creeds smirks at him and adds color to the dragon's wings. The paint changes color coming out of a single spray can. He makes the wings violet and magenta. He turns around and lounges, dangles himself halfway off the ladder with all the ease of a person unafraid of heights. He looks Perce over with a boldness he never would have displayed six months ago, or even two months ago. The warmth that curls in Perce’s belly has nothing to do with Creeds’s alpha scent, or almost nothing. He could ignore the way a note of apples from Creeds and cloves from himself mix pleasantly in the air. He could ignore it but he doesn't feel the need. 

“We should talk about what we mean about being serious before that,” Perce says, summoning himself a second beer. He watches Creeds watch him tip his head back and swallow. Creeds is still smiling slyly at him, a can of spray paint loose in one hand. Behind him, the wet paint on the dragon wings brightens to a hot cherry red. 

They talk. They talk about being okay using the label of ‘boyfriends’ in front of other people, and that they’re both happy with how they communicate in general. Creeds isn’t sure about holding hands or anything else in public, too used to being judged by people like his mother. Perce agrees to let him take the lead on that. Neither is overly concerned about Perce being significantly older. Both would be open to the idea of staying together permanently, and barring anything drastic before then, they’ll revisit the topic in maybe six months. They agree Perce ought to eat dinner over at the Barebone apartment more often, and that Creeds might consider staying overnight more often on Perce’s off days. Creeds lists off his upcoming class schedule for the fall, and the hours he might work at Kowalski’s.

He also asks if Perce would be willing to top him for a change. Perce is thoroughly delighted by this idea. Creeds continues painting his dragon mural on the wall, using shades of red and purple and orange that he modifies magically out of a much smaller original selection of colors. Perce suggests a few other things they might like to try, including picnic dates and sex in the shower. Perce finishes his second beer and says he would not be opposed to letting Creeds watch Perce touch himself more often, if Creeds is interested. They both keep their voices light, and pretend to ignore the thickening scents of their mutual arousal. 

Creeds gives up first, leaps down to the floor and strides over to straddle Perce in his chair. They kiss greedily. They wordlessly decide not to relocate upstairs out of mutual impatience. Creeds unbuttons Perce’s shirt and rucks his undershirt up to his ribs while Perce squeezes and strokes him through his jeans. 

They’ve been dancing around each other long enough today that now every touch sends a jolt down Creeds’s spine. Perce undoes Creeds’s pants with magic, pulls out Creeds’s cock, and works him over with a fist between their bodies. They grind to completion still mostly clothed, Perce holding Creeds tight against him, breathing hard and rubbing his thumb relentlessly over Creeds’s slit. Creeds shudders and thrusts into Percival’s hand through his own climax, gasping into Perce’s hair. Perce groans and goes still beneath him. 

“Did you-?” Creeds asks.  
“I did. God, I’m such a teenager,” Perce laughs, a little abashed, stroking the dip of Creeds’s spine. “Definitely not a teenager,” Creeds says, spreading his hands on Perce’s chest, feeling the muscles there. Perce ducks his head, smiling. “Haven’t come in my pants in a while,” he says, still sounding embarrassed. Creeds can’t allow that. “Do you think I’m sexy?” he asks coyly, turning pink when Perce laughs happily.

“You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Perce says, beaming at him, slipping his hands farther up Creeds’s shirt and massaging his back. “I want to watch your face next time. You’re always quiet but your little noises sound amazing. And you’re so bold now, I’m so proud of you. Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. See, I already said that. You’re so sexy I can’t even think.”

Creeds giggles at the compliments and rocks in Perce’s lap, enjoying the twinge, the pressure almost too much on his sensitive cock. He feels so light, dizzy with happiness, light enough he could fly. Perce kisses him softly, smiling into his mouth. “Your hair’s a mess now,” Creeds says between giggles. Perce says, “Thanks, my boyfriend did it for me.” Creeds snorts and buries his face in Perce’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay, I’m fine,” he says, when he finally stops quivering with laughter. “You are,” Perce agrees seriously with a mischievous glint in his eye. Creeds bites down on another laugh and pokes him until he laughs too. “I can clean us up with magic,” Perce suggests. He touches Creeds’s hip to show what he means. They are starting to get sticky, but Creeds pauses. “Or,” he says. “Shower? Together?”

Perce’s eyes widen. He nods enthusiastically and lets Creeds pull him to his feet. “No time like the present,” he says, and follows Creeds up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats, this chapter is almost entirely extra content I decided I needed for pacing and character dynamics. Also, more light smut! Hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> Percival may appear calm in some of these conversations, but whenever Creeds compliments him, he is internally melting into a puddle of emotions on the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different. The Hallowers, as usual, are up to something.
> 
> Chapter twelve warnings: wizard racism, graphic depictions of violence, graphic self-inflicted violence and body horror (not a depiction of mental health related self-harm, just dark magic creepiness someone does to themself without coercion. short summary TBA in notes at end of chapter.)

________________________________________________________________________

The Seekers of the Deathly Hallows have been summoned to a meeting.

Their leaders have, anyway. There are some fifty of them. Gathering them all is no minor undertaking, even so soon before the evening of their plan. It is only one of a series of prior plans to expose the wizarding world, the latest in a series of forays. While they would like the plan to be foolproof, the Hallowers’ success has always been about playing a long game.

If all goes as planned, several blocks full of magical shops and magical objects and wixen doing magic will soon appear before the muggle public in an apparently physically impossible section of downtown Chicago. They’ve started setting up final groundwork a month in advance for implementation in January. Lest muggle news crews fail to get the point, they’ll be staging an attack, which will nicely round off some strategic loose ends to do with Slughorn and the Felices. The mugs will get a show, the aurors will get a field day, and the Hallowers have their targets. If stripping the illusory protection off a wizard shopping district doesn’t work, they’ll simply try again; unless, that is, Tom Riddle gets his way.

Gellert rarely calls them all in like this, but for the moment even the frequently mutinous Death Eaters still come when he calls. He has cast before the leadership before as a show of honesty, for the sake of solidarity and democracy. This is not one of those times. This is to be a show of authority. Men and women and others in between file into the long candlelit meeting room. Gellert waits until they are all seated on the raised rows of chairs on either side. His anger smells like a winter forest, cold evergreen and a wash of even colder mint. He remains silent and standing until the last of them have arrived. One of the werewolves closes the door and latches it, and only then does Grindelwald speak.

“Friends,” he finally says, his voice carrying in the stillness. “The time for our latest plan approaches. Many of you have put much of yourselves into its creation, and I thank you for that. But a counter suggestion has been recently made. I am greatly disturbed to discover how many of you have considered this without bringing it before the floor.”

Nobody moves. Abraxas Malfoy watches him with hooded eyes. Lucius has not yet mastered the expression of indifference and his face tightens. Grindelwald doesn’t need to name the dissidents. The Death Eater faction all knows who they are. He’s furious. He doesn’t want to alienate the entire faction and its unknown sympathizers, but he will if he must. 

“There has been a second plan proposed. The second plan involves moving the target site to the Hogwarts school campus.”

To be fair, the magical school would make a dramatic target, if one less likely to succeed. If revealed, the castle would be visible against the skyline and utterly impossible to hide again. Hogwarts is older than the country, a fortress as much as a campus, and has been relocated multiple times with its barriers intact. Its concealments are so ancient and complex it practically exists in its own dimension. Disrupting a concealment of that caliber would require blood sacrifices, no question about it. Assuming they can break in, it doesn’t take a huge leap of intelligence to realize where the Death Eaters would get blood sacrifices in a school full of unwilling innocents, many of them muggleborn or mixed. 

Grindelwald has made it very clear that magical children of any bloodline are off limits, but apparently Riddle wants to make his big play. Grindelwald keeps his anger close, wraps his magic tight against his skin. Its absence chills the room.

“May I have a voucher that this second plan indeed exists?”

A burly werewolf raises her hand and rumbles, “I’ve heard it.”  
“You’re supposed to say you vouch for it,” mutters the person next to her.  
“I vouch for it then,” she growls, “not that I like it.”

“I too vouch for this fact,” Abraxas Malfoy says softly, raising a gloved hand. Grindelwald nods minutely to each of them. To the room, he says: “I have no desire to waste magical blood of any sort. At the same time, I can agree sacrifices must be made. Would anyone like to speak in defense of the second plan or clarify its points?”

The Hallowers look around at each other. Though reasonably phrased, it is a baited question, and nobody volunteers to answer. Rabastan Lestrange folds his arms and sinks lower in his seat. One of the elder Rosiers coughs. If Gellert were a natural legilimens and Helena were less suave, she’d probably be aiming very loud _I-told-you-so_ thoughts at him. Grindelwald allows himself a moment to consider the sparks tying him to each shapeshifter, all the oaths of silence made. He’d like to rip the rug out from under the Death Eaters who agreed to the shapeshifter deal, strip them of the forms he’d given them. That would be too provocative, and he doesn’t dare alienate anyone currently on the fence by making the first move.

“Would anyone like to speak in defense of the original plan?” he repeats in a ringing voice. The burly werewolf raises her hand. 

“Lynn.” Grindelwald gestures her to stand. “Grindelwald,” she acknowledges, bowing as deeply as she can without knocking into the row of people in front of her. “I don’t understand why we are having this discussion. Didn’t we vote on every step of the plan? The first plan. If people can’t bring up what things that bother them they should go back to MACUSA. We already voted yes as a group. Uh, that’s all. Thank you.” She gives another half bow and sits down heavily.

“Thank you Lynn. Again, would anyone like to speak in defense of the second plan?”

Silence.

“In that case I propose we allow the second plan to speak for itself. All in favor?”

There is a pause. People slowly begin to raise their hands. A trio of goblins mutter together and raise their hands in unison, giving the rest of the room baleful looks. Most of the Blacks keep their hands lowered, but the youngest, Bella, raises her hand with a gleeful smile. Grindelwald is fairly certain what he will See, and Bellatrix is the sort that would enjoy even the suggestion of bloodshed. 

At the head of the room, on the lowest part of the floor, there is a table and a single chair. 

They have used his Sight in planning before, and frequently. They would not be nearly so successful otherwise. Nobody stays this lucky for this long, escaping collectively out from under the aurors’ noses, not even the Felixers, smugglers of the luck potion. You can’t do it without a trick. Gellert’s Sight is their trick. It tends to make people uncomfortable, as well. At the moment, he’s angry enough with Riddle’s faction to consider that a benefit.

Gellert lights candle flames without candles, little tongues of fire burning in a circle in midair above the table. Otherwise, the casting itself is simple. There is no need for elaborate ritual when one truly possesses the talent. Casting knucklebones will do, a divination practice known to practically every child raised in the European traditions of the dark. All he needs are the bones to cast. Gellert waves his wand and a small box on the table unfolds itself. He casts one other silent spell, sets down his wand, and lifts from the box a gleaming scalpel. Everyone knows a magical creature’s bones are the best. Most people use dragon bones, but dragon bones are not the tool for which this art is forbidden. Human magicians are magical creatures as well. 

“Please do not speak except to suggest questions,” Gellert says into the silence of the room. He inspects the scalpel blade, and then a series of forceps and other metal tools. He spreads them out on the table and sits. This is not a muggle surgery, no gloves or sterile layers to be seen. He stretches his hands, lays his left hand and forearm on the table, and picks up the scalpel.

Many of the oldest magics hinge on intention, consent, and sacrifice. Many people assume dark magic requires a victim, but the way Gellert was taught, coercion blurs rather than clarifies the Sight. He slides the scalpel into his own hand. He makes not a sound while he slices through skin and flesh. There are tools to hold the skin open, tools to pull away flesh, tools to cut through tendon. The snap of each cut seems to echo unnaturally loud. A spell keeps too much blood from pouring out of his hand, but nothing cuts the pain. Intention, consent, and sacrifice. One by one, he removes each of the knucklebones of his left hand, the metacarpals, and places them in a row on the table. His breathing is fast and shallow but his movements are sure.

Tears are streaming down his face, and the pine scent of his pain fills the room long before he is done. Nobody would dare try to interrupt him. The rest of the audience sits deadly quiet. Scabior brings him bowls of clean water to wash his right hand, and a handkerchief to wipe his face. His hand shakes slightly as he blows his streaming nose. He doesn't bother to wipe his eyes and simply sits, waiting. Eventually the tears cease. He does nothing about his mangled left hand. 

The freshly removed bones have a smooth silky white covering, except where blood and faint patterns mar them. He lifts them one by one and places them in a second bowl of clean water. The faint patterns blaze suddenly fiery with the blood removed. The patterns are runes, cursed or woven on both sides of his living bone. He lifts the bones out of the water one at a time and dries them on a fresh handkerchief. Each time one is removed, the remaining bones click faintly against the sides of the bowl. Some quality of the sound makes one’s hair stand on end.

“By this blood and this pain, I greet you,” Gellert announces. He is not speaking to the people in the room. His voice echoes. His eyes are fixed on a point beyond the closed doors. The candle-less candle flames quiver. 

“Now we may ask our questions.”

Not many can cast the knucklebones well, but most can understand their answers. Nearly every dark family’s child learns knucklebone runes as soon as they learn to read. One of the goblins is the first to ask a question. “Do people outside the leaders know this second plan? People outside this room?”

Gellert gathers the bones, the five bones from his own left hand, and throws them across the table with his right. His left hand bleeds sluggishly. The runes on the bones still blaze a brilliant white. The observers all lean forward to read the patterns. There’s nuance to the answer, but the question was simple enough. The runes’ answer is yes. The runes also answer how many, and speak of the different sorts of leaders in the same room, but most people won’t be able to See that. Gellert’s eyes flash pale with reflected firelight. 

There are several more questions about when critical events will happen, whether the aurors know certain information, and how certain it is that people will die for each version of the plan. For each question, Gellert casts and re-gathers his bones. The second plan could work, if they agreed upon it. Like everything, it would come at a cost. Finally they come to a lull in the questions, and Gellert begins to ask questions of his own. 

“Will at least three fewer magicians die with the second suggested plan?”  
_No._

“Will at least three fewer purebloods among our following die with the second suggested plan?”  
_Yes._

The observers shift and murmur. 

“Will at least three more non-magicians die with the second suggested plan?”  
_Maybe._

“Is it one intention of the second suggested plan to kill muggleborn students?”  
_Yes._

The observers’ muttering darkens and swells. Many of the old families are pureblood, or consider themselves as good as such. The Hallowers need them. But many of the group’s foot soldiers are poor nobodies, dragging themselves up from nothing, their blood as muddy as river water, rich and strong. These are Gellert’s people, the smugglers and apothecaries and midnight watchers. The Hallowers are united, but with suggestions like this plan, only precariously. Scabior growls very softly at Gellert’s side. 

Gellert's eyes flash, though his ringing tone does not change. “Does the person who suggested this plan wish to challenge my leadership?”

There is a subtle intake of breath. This question isn’t for himself. He already knows what the answer will be. He casts the bones. The answer is peculiar and complicated, but there is no mistaking the part that means potential violence, and, equally unmistakeable: _Yes._

Gellert stares at the bones and the runes exposed on them. A single bone balances just barely on one of the others. As he bears the talent, he can read far more off the bones than the others can. He does not narrate what he Sees. He picks up the bones and washes them again, gently, one by one, and places them back into the mess of his left hand. Once they are all in place, he extinguishes the candle flames and strokes his right hand in the air over his left. Instantly the flesh begins to knit together. It heals seamlessly, so quickly you might blink and miss it. Gellert lifts his once again undamaged left hand from the table and cracks his knuckles. Several people wince at the sound.

Gellert exhales forcefully, as though he had been holding his breath the entire time. Most of the tension in his body relaxes and with it goes his preternatural calm. He glares at them, suddenly quietly ferocious. 

“Would anyone like to continue the discussion of an alternate plan?” he asks icily. Abraxas Malfoy and Tom Riddle meet each other's gaze coolly from across the room. Nobody says anything. “In that case, thank you for your time, my friends. We continue with the original plan next week, as previously agreed,” Gellert growls, pushing back his chair and standing. 

He packs up the box and tools with a wave of his hand and marches the length of the room, head held high, lip curled, daring anyone to intercept him. Scabior flows soundlessly into wolf form and pads out behind him, ears back to monitor the whispering. One of the younger alphas sways in his seat. The woman next to him hauls him upright with a hiss. Most of the alphas in the room are squirming under the heavy atmosphere of Grindelwald's magic, the shadows of the ritual, and his blatant dominance mixed with unmitigated omega pain.

The betas start to disperse first, muttering quietly. Abraxas Malfoy is the first alpha to leave. He stands almost the same moment as Tom Riddle, and raises a thin blond eyebrow. Abraxas descends the steps to the floor, ignoring Riddle and his son staring after him, and sweeps wordlessly out of the room. 

Grindelwald has already apparated away, and Scabior with him. In the privacy of his rooms, Gellert puts away the surgical tools box and collapses into a chair. Scabior, still as a wolf, sits at his feet and whines softly. “No thank you,” Gellert murmurs, dragging his right hand over his face. He cradles his left hand in his lap, eyes tight with residual pain. Scabior whines again, and leans his dark-furred chin on Gellert’s knee. “Tea and dittany would be nice,” Gellert admits, rubbing a thumb over his wrist.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes while Scabior shifts noiselessly and goes about the small kitchen, gathering mugs and heating water for tea. “They’re still going to try it, aren’t they?” Scabior asks. “Yes,” Gellert sighs. “You can’t let them get away with that?” Scabior asks, directing some clean dishes from a dish drainer to put themselves away. The teacups and saucers clink faintly. 

“I won’t. Top right, over the sink,” Gellert adds, not opening his eyes. “I know,” says Scabior, already at his elbow with a steaming mug and a bottle of dittany. Gellert sits up and takes them with a small smile. “Don’t you have somewhere else you’d rather be?” 

Scabior raises his eyebrows at the question. “Should I tell the pack to prepare for a reclaiming?” he asks pointedly. “Unfortunately, that would be wise,” Gellert says with a grimace, accepting the tea. An ash-colored creature resembling a giant lizard leaps down off one of the bookshelves, catlike, and climbs into Gellert’s lap. It burbles questioningly and he rubs its spiky chin with his free hand. It makes a distressed squeak and starts methodically licking his wrist.

“Why do you let that thing on the furniture?” Scabior asks disapprovingly, eyeing the creature, which glares at him and keeps licking Gellert’s fingers. “Must not have got the blood off,” Gellert mutters, obviously deeming Scabior’s question to be rhetorical. Gellert makes the bottle of dittany pour a few drops into his tea with a flick of wandless magic.

“I would prefer to give Riddle the benefit of a doubt—“ Gellert starts, and Scabior snorts disparagingly. “—but yes, make the arrangements among the wolves for a reclaiming. If the Death Eaters decide to go their own way, they’ll be back to their own faces, so prepare for that.”

“You’ll revoke their ability to shapeshift?”  
“I’d rather it didn’t come to that, but if they follow Riddle and disobey a direct order, it will make a reclamation more straightforward.”  
“I’ll rotate the guards on the ward eaters.”  
“Quite.”  
“Anything else?”  
“Are you quite sure you don’t have somewhere else to be?”

Scabior huffs, shifts back into a wolf, and settles heavily on the floor at Gellert’s feet. “Thank you, Cavall,” Gellert says softly.

________________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey  
> *slides u a chupacabra*  
> if you think Gellert would not keep a giant bloodsucking lizard as pet for the #aesthetic, you are wrong.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite some drama at Perce’s work, he and Creeds find occasional time alone. Creeds isn’t the only one who feels better because of their relationship. Also, Creeds’s second rut makes a perfect excuse for some privacy.
> 
> Chapter warnings: explicit sexual content, very brief mention of violence.

________________________________________________________________________

The start of January brings with it a threat of snow and a promise of Creeds’s third rut. He keeps a mental tally almost without realizing: this is it, number three, the third one ever. He’s starting to recognize the way it feels, including that it turns the dial up on all his emotions. He feels discontented with almost everything, though at least the intense winter cold hasn’t bothered him so much the last few days. A lot has changed since his rut last December, that’s for sure. This time he’ll be prepared. CWSI classes haven’t started yet for the spring, and instead he can turn the full force of his restlessness on the apartment.

He and Chastity took over the lease completely in October, able to pay without the assistance MACUSA had been giving them. He takes the upcoming lease renewal as a reminder of all the little things that need fixing, like the dripping shower and the door to Mod’s bedroom that scrapes in the door frame. He needs Percival's help to fix the latter because he can’t figure out how to adjust the door even after taking the hinges apart. 

It helps distract Creeds for a while to make dinner when Perce comes over on the weekends. Normally he lets the others help cook, but doing all the work satisfies some of the protective urge from his impending rut. Still, a bemused Chastity has to stop him scrubbing the kitchen floor by hand on Monday because magic doesn’t feel thorough enough, whatever that means.

“Creeds, you’re being wiggly,” Mod declares when she gets home from school. “Do you want a snack or not?” Creeds says, gesturing with the peanut butter jar. “Yes please, but I’m just saying,” she says, hooking her backpack on a kitchen chair and unwinding her scarf. “Are you barefoot?” she demands, halfway through taking out her books. 

“Yeah, so?” Creeds sets down her plate of PB&J (strawberry, crust on, cut into triangles).  
“You’re crazy! It’s cold!” Mod declares, flopping down in a kitchen chair.  
“Modesty, come on, manners.”  
“Thanks for the sandwiches. You’re still crazy though.”

He doesn’t argue the point, because he’s cooked four days of meals in advance, washed and folded all the laundry, and dusted the tops of the cabinets and all the light fixtures. His rut will start soon and Perce’s work has been such a mess lately it feels like they barely see each other, so he does feel a little crazy. 

Mod asks him to sit with her on the couch and read after dinner, which is code for him to stop wiggling. He doesn’t mind her sticking her cold feet under his legs. Creeds kind of wants to curl up around Mod and cuddle with her, but he knows she wouldn’t appreciate it. For now it’s enough to have the apartment clean and smelling like his sisters, happy and safe.

Creeds’s phone buzzes on the coffee table and Mod leans over to look. “Percy is texting you,” she says. Creeds resists the urge to read the text immediately. Chas won’t be back from work until late, and he’s reluctant to ignore Mod for any length of time when they’re home together and not busy with schoolwork. 

“Are you gonna stay with him this week?” Mod asks.  
“Yeah, tomorrow or Wednesday to start. Mr. Kowalski already knows I’ll be calling in part of the week.”

Creeds’s phone buzzes again, and he picks it up to read the two messages from Perce.

_8:23 PM. sorry to bother during family time, but can you come over?_  
_8:25 PM. we had some bad news at work today and I’d feel better if I could see you_

Well, that’s different. Creeds types a quick reply that he can’t until Chastity makes it home around 11, resisting a pang of guilt. Perce almost never asks to see him this late unless they already had plans. He texts again asking whether everyone is okay, whether Perce himself was hurt, and gets the less than comforting reply that none of the aurors were injured, but no, he’s not particularly okay right that moment. 

Creeds sends Mod to bed around 9:30 and practices charms in the living room to stop himself pacing. He practically bolts out the door when Chas finally makes it home. He can’t apparate yet, so he takes the L most of the way to the nearest floo walk, and jogs to the loft from there. It snowed a few days ago, and many of Perce’s mug neighbors have nearly perfect patches of white on their miniature lawns. Perce’s neighborhood is so nice it’s actually safe and quiet at night, which Creeds never fails to notice.

As usual, the back alley door into the loft is warded but not locked, and a murmur of voices comes from the first floor. Creeds ignores the bright light and voices in favor of the stairs to the second floor. The sounds from downstairs fade to a whisper when he reaches the landing. Wix apartments have incredible soundproofing, so much better than the places he and his sisters used to live. He unlocks Perce’s door with his key, one Perce had made specially for him, and shuts the door softly behind him.

Perce’s extra layers of personal wards admit him with a familiar tingle, faint in the way distant ocean waves sound quiet. There are only a few lamps lit, and it’s nice and warm after the biting wind outside.

“I’m here,” he calls up the hall, stomping slush off his boots. He vanishes most of the mess and leaves his damp boots by the front door. Perce meets him before he makes it to the dimly lit kitchen. He waves away Creeds’s coat to hang itself up out of the way, and hugs Creeds tightly in greeting. He smells freshly showered, crisp and citrusy, with the now familiar bitter undertone of cedar and stress.

“I missed you,” Perce says, his voice muffled by Creeds’s sweater. “When? At work?” Creeds slides one hand up to rub Perce’s neck and Perce melts against him with a sigh.

“I missed you even before I met you, I think. I know I just saw you all day yesterday, you can laugh,” Perce mumbles, adjusting so his head is tucked under Creeds’s chin. Creeds strokes the small of Perce’s back and swallows a swell of protectiveness that’s so fierce he tastes smoke. “I’m not going to laugh at you,” he says. “Was work really bad?”

Perce sighs. “Work. Work was...it was really bad. We have ten new missing persons reported and four homicides this week.” He leans more of his weight on Creeds and his voice drops lower. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s a new Hallower competitor since the Felixers are falling apart, and sometimes I just get so tired of Alphas. Not you, you don’t count. In the office.”

“I knew what you meant,” Creeds says. Despite the fact that he’s already clinging, Perce seems to be trying to get even closer to Creeds. “Hi,” Perce says quietly. “Hi,” Creeds replies softly. Perce unwinds the scarf from around Creeds’s neck and puts his face there. His breath right next to the mating gland makes Creeds feel warm and shaky.

“Can I kiss you?” Perce asks huskily, his lips nearly touching the base of Creeds’s throat. “Yes,” Creeds says. Perce turns his head and lays an open-mouthed kiss right over the gland, and it sends heat down Creeds’s spine. “You smell good,” Perce says. 

Creeds swallows and tries to keep his voice even. “I think the scent suppressant was making me feel weird, so I stopped taking it,” he says faintly. He wants to put his mouth on every part of Perce’s body and touch all of his clothes, so he’ll smell like Creeds when he goes to work. That would be a little odd and definitely inappropriate.

“Oh yeah, it’s the rut. I forgot,” Perce says, nuzzling Creeds’s neck. “I didn’t really forget, I just haven’t thought about that all day. Three days of cuddling and no people sounds amazing right now.” 

Creeds feels like he might combust if Perce keeps talking with his lips against Creeds’s throat, so he rearranges him into a less hazardous position, curled against his chest instead of front to front. “You do seem really tired,” Creeds offers. “Are you going to be okay? I mean, I could always...” Creeds trails off and Perce huffs, “Always what, spend your rut alone? No way. I want you here.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should just take a couple days and rest.” Creeds scratches Perce’s scalp, making his hair stick out at the back of his head. Leaving Perce alone is the opposite of what Creeds wants to do, but he wants to give Perce what Perce wants and not just what Creeds wants.

“We slept last time,” Perce hums.  
“Maybe you should take an extra day off then?” Creeds suggests. Perce makes a little grumble of protest and squirms around in Creeds’s embrace until they’re front to front again. Perce leans against him, flush from hips to collarbones, and takes his earlobe gently between his teeth.

“Percyyyy,” Creeds whines, only it comes out as a growl instead of a whine and surprises them both. Perce laughs a little, breath warm on Creeds’s ear. “Growly alpha, huh?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out sounding like that,” Creeds says plaintively; “It’s not fair, I already went through puberty once.” Perce chuckles and shifts against him, probably deliberately. He knows that Creeds is embarrassingly easily aroused this close to a rut. “Mmm, growly,” Perce murmurs, and licks the skin below his ear.

 _“Percival.”_  
“I like when you’re growly,” Perce says around a yawn. Creeds places his hands firmly on Perce’s hips, not pushing him away, but hopefully to ground them a little. Creeds says, “I think you need to go to sleep.”

“Stay with me, please,” Perce says immediately.  
“I need to help Mod get ready for school in the morning,” Creeds says reluctantly.

“I’ll come back with you.”  
“We can’t have sex with Mod and Chas in the apartment,” Creeds warns as Perce lazily mouths the base of his throat. “Silencing charms,” Perce says, a devilish note in his voice, which startles a small laugh out of Creeds. “No, Percy, if you come back with me you have to sleep!”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Perce agrees humorously, trying and failing to suppress another huge yawn. Perce summons a change of clothes and some overnight things without drawing himself out of Creeds’s embrace. He puts on his nice winter boots and black and white coat directly over his pajama pants and sweater to walk to the floo junction. Creeds keeps an arm around Perce to steer him. He keenly feels the few inches of height difference between them walking this way, with Perce tucked under his arm and keeping his nose warm with Creeds’s scarf. The alpha in Creeds feels enormously satisfied by Perce’s clinginess. 

Once at the Barebone apartment, Perce barely stops touching Creeds long enough for them to shed their coats and scarves and shoes. “Sleep,” Creeds reminds him in an undertone as he deposits the yawning beta on his bed. “Spoil sport,” Perce murmurs, already burrowing under the pile of blankets. He’s asleep by the time Creeds is done brushing his teeth, curled up with his arms wrapped around one of Creeds’s pillows. 

Creeds strokes Perce’s hair and climbs in carefully behind him, tucking his knees under Perce’s and putting his mouth and nose right by the back of Perce’s neck. The warning tingles of his approaching rut quiet down with Perce’s warmth and scent mingling with his own. He’s still not sure he would categorize ruts as fun, but there is something unique about how the world slots into place when the rut is approaching and he can hold Perce like this. He feels like he would be content to stay there forever.

________________________________________________________________________

Percival wakes slowly and realizes he’s slept all the way through the night with Creeds curled around him. Percival feels wonderfully warm and the bedsheets smell like Creeds: black tea and tart alpha male sweetness. He wiggles around to loosen a crick in his neck and realizes Creeds is half hard. He considers waking Creeds up by drawing attention to this fact, but decides against it, since Creeds will need his energy for the rut Percival can smell on his skin.

Percival dozes until Creeds’s alarm clock starts buzzing. Creeds fumbles to shut it off and burrows his face into Percival’s hair with a groan. “Morning,” Percival mumbles. Creeds snuffles his neck and pulls the blankets up over their heads. He’s still half hard, and Percival arches his back slowly, encouraging. Creeds rubs against him and then seems to wake up enough to realize what he’s doing, somewhat to Percival’s disappointment. Creeds groans and rolls off him, pulling the covers off them both. 

“Morning, Percy,” he says, his voice low with sleepiness. He places his hand on Percival’s neck and strokes him once all the way down his back to his tailbone. Percival arches under the touch. Creeds pulls the covers back up over Percival and starts rummaging around in his dresser for clothes. 

Percival stays there, still not entirely awake, content to be surrounded by Creeds’s scent instead of his own. Creeds hasn’t been able to stay overnight as often of late, mostly because of Percival’s crazy work schedule and because people keep getting murdered, so Percival’s sheets at home smell less like Creeds than usual. He’d been ignoring how much he missed it, but sleeping in Creeds’s bed has reminded him. They’ll be staying at Percival’s place for the rut for privacy’s sake. Maybe he can use spells to clean up and not actually wash his sheets afterward. 

Whenever he’s dating an alpha, their impending rut tends to make Percival feel affectionate and lazy, like not doing anything useful. He’s independent enough that the effect usually bothers him, but Creeds isn’t overbearing. He’d like Creeds to be more demanding, even. Creeds is helplessly affectionate even when he loses control, when Percival rides him and praises him and kisses his gland until Creeds is wild and bucking underneath him. The idea of doing that again sets a slow flare of warmth in Percival’s belly and he lingers on the thought with anticipation.

He rolls over in Creeds’s bed and buries his face in one of the pillows. The pillow smells so strongly of Creeds he suspects it’s Creeds’s favorite. He smiles to himself and stretches, listening to the clinks and murmurs and other sounds of Creeds making breakfast for his youngest sister. He’ll wait until she’s gone before getting up. Creeds is right, they really ought not to have sex here, even when both of the sisters are out of the apartment. The way Percival wants to touch and tease him, he’d be likely to push Creeds the rest of the way into his rut, and Creeds is too modest to be comfortable traveling even a short distance in public once the rut has started in earnest.

Percival waits to get up until after he hears Creeds return from walking Mod to the bus stop. He stretches slowly according to his usual habit as if he were going to dueling practice, wrists and arms and shoulders, neck and back and hips and hamstrings. When he finally emerges to the little kitchen, Creeds is putting butter and jam on a stack of toast, one stack for himself and one obviously for Percival, crispier than Creeds prefers his own and with extra butter. Percival comes up behind Creeds and hugs him around the waist, breathing in from the back of his sweater. 

“Hi,” Creeds says softly, leaning back into Percival’s chest. Percival hums and angles his face so he can drag his cheek back and forth over Creeds’s shoulders, marking Creeds with his scent. Creeds rumbles warningly with no real irritation when Percival kisses the back of his neck. “I know, not at your place, my place only,” Percival yawns, and withdraws to take his seat at the table. They eat their toast and a fresh batch of fried eggs in companionable silence. 

Percival summons his phone from the bedroom and flicks through several messages with gathering resignation. Creeds notices his change in posture immediately and stands up to lean protectively on the back of Percival’s chair. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and Percival closes his messages with a sigh. “Oh, the usual. I don’t want to go to work,” Percival mutters, turning in his chair to reach for Creeds, who gladly steps closer for Percival to lean against him.

“Can you not go to work?” Creeds asks honestly. The scent of his pre-rut envelops Percival. “Not unless I have a good excuse,” Percival says, “and being tired doesn’t count.” Creeds combs his fingers through Percival’s hair with the utmost gentleness, the edge to his scent telling Percival clearly that Creeds thinks being tired should count. Percival knows he smells faintly of cedar despite his good night’s sleep, from residual stress and lack of sleep. That’s just what happens when the DMLE has a really serious set of cases to watch. He has gotten used to it, though he notes a touch guiltily that it bothers Creeds.

“I’ll get some rest later this week when I stay with you,” Percival says, making no move to stand up. In fact, as Creeds keeps petting his hair, Percival finds himself pressing his face into Creeds’s stomach and tightening his hands on Creeds’s waist. Creeds makes a low crooning sound and Percival slides his hands up the back of Creeds’s shirt to touch his skin. 

“Stay with me anyway,” Creeds suggests, his voice soft the way it gets when he’s suppressing a growl. Percival wants that growl more than anything right now. He wants to hear the proof that Creeds trusts him to be this close, proof Creeds wants him here. Against his better judgement, he pushes Creeds’s shirt and sweater up until he can mouth at the trail of dark hair just above Creeds’s waistband. He does get a growl for that, as he’d expected, and he angles his head to lick a stripe from one side of Creeds’s abdomen to the other. He knows he’s acting like a teenager rather than the responsible head of the DMLE and he can’t bring himself to care. Creeds smells like apples, and Percival can taste the rut blooming under his efforts.

“I want to eat you alive,” Percival rumbles, and Creeds swallows a sound Percival immediately wants to draw back out of him again. “Perce,” Creeds says firmly, taking half a step back. Percival leans after him until he’s just barely sitting on the edge of his chair. That’s the thing about ruts and personality stereotypes: stereotypes would expect Creeds to be the more possessive of the two, and Percival begs to differ. He speaks into Creeds’s skin.

“I don’t want to go to work.”  
“I think. You might better stay home with me. I--please, Percy.”

Creeds pushes Percival away with another growl that’s half groan. Percival lets him back away with some disappointment. He stares hard at the floor and breathes evenly until he can regain some composure, though not much, because Creeds is undeniably aroused and Percival can smell it. He could probably convince Creeds to let him do something filthy right here in the kitchen, but then Creeds would feel guilty about their scents embarrassing Chastity, and Creeds would feel obligated to clean the kitchen, and they’d never make any progress getting to the loft. Percival makes himself calm down.

Creeds is gazing up at the ceiling when Percival finally looks at him again. It wasn’t Percival’s entire goal, but he realizes with relief that he won’t have to go to work after all. He asks, “Are you going to call in?” Creeds swallows and says carefully, “I think so. I think it’s starting. Can we go back to the loft?” 

Percival agrees. Creeds backs out of the kitchen to gather his things and make a quick call to let his boss know he won’t be able to make his shift. Percival sends his leopard patronus off to the auror headquarters with the message that he’ll be away for three or four days. He’d already warned his immediate team he’d be out this week for personal reasons. Most of the aurors have enough of a sense of self preservation not to say anything suggestive about him and Creeds, though of course they all know.

Once Creeds has gathered up the rest of the clothes he’s bringing and writes a note for Chastity, Percival apparates them to the upper doorstep inside the loft. Creeds still smells sharp and sweet with arousal. By the time Creeds puts his backpack on a chair and removes his shoes with studied casualness, Percival has sent his own coat and boots away to the closet and half stripped out of his pajamas. Creeds stalks him down the hall to the master bedroom and Percival can’t stop grinning in anticipation and relief. He wants Creeds here in his home paying attention to nothing else but him, and that’s exactly what he’s getting.

Creeds doesn’t tackle him onto the bed, but he does gently grab Percival’s wrists before he can pull off his own pants. Creeds breathes deeply from under Percival’s ear and backs them up until Percival sits down on the mattress and pulls Creeds with him. Percival makes to pull off Creeds’s clothes, but Creeds asks him to quit, so he does. 

Creeds follows Percival onto the bed and simply touches him. He combs his fingers through Percival’s hair and cradles his face. He rubs his shoulders and traces from his collarbones to the hollow of his throat, feather light. He holds Percival by curving his hands to Percival’s shoulder blades and leans in with his eyes closed to kiss him on the forehead. People don’t often try to treat him carefully and in general he wouldn’t allow it, except from Creeds.

Creeds draws circles on the tops of Percival’s shoulders and outlines the lower curve of his ribs. He picks up each of Percival’s hands and kisses every knuckle and fingertip and palm and bumpy wrist bone. There is no suggestiveness to the touches. He doesn’t lick or nip. He doesn’t crawl on top of Percival, just kneels next to him. He could suck Percival’s fingers or peel off his pajama pants. Percival wants him to, would let him do it, but Creeds trembles just to touch him, and Percival is undone by it. 

Creeds’s eyes are wide and gentle and Percival feels completely seen for the first time in weeks. “I missed you,” Creeds says softly. Percival blinks back sudden tears and smiles so wide his face hurts. “I missed you too,” he says tremulously, and Creeds finally, carefully leans toward him and kisses him. 

Percival kisses back eagerly and feels like he’s drinking the rut arousal right out of Creeds’s mouth. He teases Creeds into chasing his tongue. Creeds nips Percival’s lower lip—Percival has told him he loves that—and Percival just feels like he could melt. He arches his back and spreads his legs and fumbles for Creeds’s zipper. He hisses, “Oh god, I need this. Can I take these off?” 

Creeds nods and lets Percival help him take off his clothes. Creeds’s sweater, shirt, undershirt, and pants all go somewhere up by the headboard. Percival touches his skin as often as possible during the process so it takes a lot longer than necessary. They only pause for Creeds to take off his own socks and underwear and Percival adjusts the heater up with a careless wave of his hand.

Creeds naked and aroused is always a sight to behold. He pauses on his knees because Percival is staring. “Hi Percy,” he says shyly.  
“You’re the prettiest thing,” Percival says, and Creeds’s eyes darken. They’ve come so far in the last six months, bless him: he flushes, but tilts his chin up assertively and allows Percival to admire him.

He’s long and lean and his belly is milky pale compared to his face and hands. His black hair has grown wavy and glossy and the hair between his sharply angled hip bones is just as dark. He has bony knees and ankles, and large hands. He tends to be self-conscious about being bony and fair where Percival is muscled and swarthy. Maybe it’s the rut or maybe it’s practice that’s tipped the balance in favor of Creeds letting himself be admired today.

Some stereotypes do come true. Creeds has an impressive cock and it’s too heavy to stand all the way up when he’s on his knees. He’s been focusing on Percival and neglecting himself, but the rut has no patience. His dark cockhead glistens with precome and Percival’s attention makes him twitch. Percival grins and crawls to him, and Creeds watches him approach with palpable anticipation.

Percival cups his hand under Creeds’s balls and Creeds rocks gently into his hand. Percival rubs his face on Creeds’s hip and groans. “Wow, I just want to suck you. You smell so good. I could look at you forever.” Creeds murmurs a thanks and Percival rolls over on his back. He puts his head between Creeds’s knees and kisses his inner thighs. Creeds has a nickel-sized tattoo of a flower high inside his right thigh and Percival makes a point of kissing it every time he’s down here. Creeds shudders above him.

Creeds can easily reach Percival’s cock from here, with Percival on his back as he is, but he protests when Creeds begins to stroke him. “No, let me focus,” he orders, massaging the velvety skin of Creeds’s balls. Creeds lets out a breath and obeys, releasing him slowly. “Good,” Percival says, and Creeds shivers. Percival nuzzles up under Creeds’s balls and licks teasingly down his perineum.

“That feels good, Percy,” Creeds breathes. He reaches behind himself to weave his fingers through Percival's hair. Percival reaches around outside Creeds’s legs to grip his ass and spread him open. “Are you clean?” Percival asks, and drags his tongue over the flower tattoo.

“I took a shower last night before you came over.”  
“Did you? What a good boy.”

Creeds whines harshly and grinds down against Percival’s open mouth. Percival keeps a firm grip on his ass and thrusts his tongue in as far as he can. By mutual preference, he doesn’t top Creeds as often as Creeds tops him, but he always enjoys this part. He curls his tongue inside the rim and sucks, then withdraws and licks him until his own chin is wet. The scent of the rut is strong here, creating the illusion that Creeds’s skin tastes as sweet as he smells.

Creeds thrusts down on his tongue with ever deeper downstrokes. Percival circles his tongue just inside the rim and hums until Creeds is whining continuously. Every sound from Creeds stokes the slow heat in Percival’s belly. His own balls feel heavy and sensitive and his arousal thrums all the way back to his tailbone. Sometimes he can come just from putting his mouth on Creeds and from the sounds Creeds makes. They aren’t mated, but they’ve spent enough time skin-to-skin that Creeds’s rut has Percival simmering with affection and lust. He doesn’t need much encouragement to feel that way around Creeds, to be honest. The rut does some of the work but it’s also a convenient excuse for what Percival enjoys anyway.

Percival cranes one arm awkwardly around to wrap his hand around Creeds’s cock. “Oh, wait,” Creeds whimpers. His hole tightens reflexively under Percival’s tongue and his cock twitches in Percival’s hand. Creeds braces his hands on either side of Percival’s hips and groans with his forehead on one of Percival’s thighs. 

Percival lets go of him and withdraws his tongue. He can’t see Creeds’s expression, just his tense posture and a lot of skin. “How’re you doing?” he asks. Creeds whines and drops to his elbows. “I need to make you feel good,” he says anxiously. “Please Percival, let me do this, let me.” He turns his head and his breath caresses Percival’s cock. Percival cants his hips invitingly. 

“You want me to stay here?” Percival asks, head still between Creeds’s spread knees. He lifts his hands to stroke up Creeds’s back.  
“I want to be inside you.”  
“Mmm, yes. You going to open me up and make me feel good?” 

“Are you teasing me? Don’t tease me right now please.” Creeds turns on his hands and knees, careful not to step on Percival, and lies between Percival’s legs. 

“I’m not teasing,” Percival says. He smiles reassuringly down at Creeds, who returns the smile and rubs his scratchy cheek on Percival’s thigh. Percival summons the jar of artificial slick they keep in the bedside table and hands it over. Creeds takes out a generous measure and Percival splays his hips invitingly. Creeds delicately kisses the tip of his cock.

“I know you’ll take care of me,” Percival says, while Creeds kisses him over and over, being extremely careful with his lips and tongue, not a hint of teeth. Percival threads his fingers through Creeds’s long hair. “I know you will,” he sighs, “you’re always good to me.”

“I’m trying,” Creeds says between kisses. He sounds eager and so anxious to please. He holds the artificial slick in his hand until it’s warm and only then spreads it on Percival’s skin, gently circling his hole. Percival crosses his ankles over Creeds’s shoulders and arches toward him. “I know I can trust you,” Percival breathes as Creeds presses one finger inside. “Oh love, yes, that’s it, you’re so good Creeds.” 

Creeds makes a helpless eager sound and grinds into the bed while he continues spreading Percival open. Despite how long it’s been, he’s up to two fingers by the time he makes Percival come into his mouth. Percival cries out when he finishes, so Creeds will know how good it feels, how well he’s doing. 

Percival rolls over on his belly while he’s still buzzing with the aftermath so Creeds can continue spreading him open. He feels like Creeds’s touch cleans him, sluicing off all the uncertainty and worry from his responsibilities. Creeds starts using his tongue with his fingers, makes a faint sound of surprise, and licks into him more determinedly.

“I’m ready for you, it’s alright,” Percival encourages. Creeds spreads the slick around on Percival’s skin. “This tastes like you. How does this taste like real cloves and oranges?” he asks wonderingly. “Magic,” Percival says innocently. Creeds laughs and kisses his lower back. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Got something new,” Percival explains. “Thought we might try it.” 

There’s slick from below his balls to above his tailbone and Creeds licks him all the way up. Percival sighs and moves his hips against the bed. He’s starting to get hard again already. Creeds switches to kissing Percival’s back, and moves up until he’s covering Percival’s body with his own. He kisses the back of Percival’s neck. Percival lets all his muscles go slack as Creeds finally slicks himself up and slides in. 

“I’m ready, I’m ready for you, let me give it to you,” Percival murmurs, all the voice strangled out of him by pleasure. He’d meant to coax and tease Creeds into a punishing pace, but all he can do is melt under Creeds’s weight. He loses himself in the slide of skin as Creeds presses deep into him, movements slow and intimate, angled with care to give Percival the maximum pleasure. Percival comes first with Creeds buried inside him. His orgasm is long and slow and bone-melting. His breathless praises soon draw Creeds over the edge too.

The knot feels huge inside him, even with his muscles wrung loose under the influence of Creeds’s hormones. He breathes through the sting of pleasure-pain and sighs when Creeds lowers his weight carefully over him. Creeds burrows his face into Percival’s neck. 

“Too heavy?” Creeds asks huskily.  
“Feels good. Feels safe,” Percival hums. Creeds finds one of Percival’s hands and threads their fingers together.  
“I always want you to feel safe,” he whispers.  
Percival squeezes his hand. “You too,” he replies.

Eventually, Creeds rolls them over sideways, steering Percival with him with a careful grip on his waist. Percival shifts his weight to help as best he can. On the rut, Creeds will stay knotted in him a long time, at least half an hour instead of a few minutes. The stretch aches pleasurably; it might make him hard again before Creeds is finished if he doesn’t fall asleep. He lets his head rest under Creeds’s chin, his back flush with Credence’s stomach.

“Perce?”  
“Mm.”  
“You called me love. Did you mean it?” 

Creeds has a lilt of uncertainty in his voice like a question. Maybe he thinks Percival will take it back. Percival feels a tiny leap of nervous excitement, because he won’t take it back. Percival has avoided saying anything too direct out of respect for Creeds’s request for time. He’s not going to deny the truth though, even if saying it was an accident. Creeds smells like sweet woodsmoke and apples without a trace of bitter uncertainty, and Percival grounds himself in the feel of Creeds’s heartbeat.

“Yes,” Percival says. “I did.”  
Creeds wraps his arms protectively over Percival’s stomach and sighs contentedly. “I hoped you did. I was pretty sure, but. You really do?”

“I really do.”  
“I love you, Percy.”  
“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I waffled about whether this was the best section to put next chronologically and decided heck with it, everyone needs more fluff and smut, right? This section could have been a lot longer because protective Credence is adorable but I decided this was plenty long for continuity. 
> 
> This chapter wasn’t part of the original planned chapter count, which is part of why I just bumped the chapter count from 21 to 23. I thought about posting it separately and then I was like nah, they cute, and what's ABO for, anyway?


End file.
